You started by invading my arteries, used my floods
to measure out, to calculate your attack,
the tools of your trade packed ready.
I know you now by your sounds, the unhealthy, waspish rasp
or the deep hacking, sweet edged and vicious.
For days I hear your approach through dense rain
and the song of a billion insects.
Lately your thick smoke has curled in my canopy,
an invasive slick that muffles, strangles my wet greenness,
that makes my sap heavy.

One day soon you will cut me from my roots,
tear off my limbs and skin with a rapacious grin,
and in a short cacophony choke off the liquid in my veins
killing the clouds that cool my head.
This generous life, this root stock which
feeds your lungs, your lips,
will be gigatons of carbon.

When you have done with me, sawn me for lumber
or left me to burn under a bright sun;
when you have heard the secret whisper of neat crops
and leached all the goodness for cash;
when you have watched your winnings blow in the wind
throttling the thinning rivers;
when you warm in thick silence;
then you will see these constant reminders
that your cancer kills.