Honey Locust for Barbed Wires

Men are cutting down afresh.

Razors push through skin of rough stems.

Slaughter another 

for the fresh seed pods

cultivated the same years

it takes to live in isolation,

grow a garden, listen to the earth,

and forget what it means to feel needles.

Leaving the three-pronged limp and passages

of roots will sing the crimes of its kind.

I desire the hands of nurturers.

Their veins aren’t enough to

crush the depraved with

chainsaws and spurs meant to invade.

They are only branching to embrace,

but for the gatherers afar.