From knotholes in the pinewood, she watches them
spike the ancient trees
Ho Chi Minh sandals on the hallowed ground, on beds of needles
children in black pajamas come to reinforce
the frail, stoop-shouldered nymphs of her command
braving the potshots, chainsaws, and bulldozers of lumberjacks
deaf to the cries of saplings, the query of owls
and the many warnings of the old women of the wood.
The spikes break chains, and the shrapnel
taps the trunks of men
the sugared gas tanks and punji ditches
slow the rout to a crawl, the survivors harried
by the undying spirits of the trees.
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