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  • Writer's pictureWolfpen


Three Poems by Lauren Martin

The Death of Nature

The woods are thick,


thriving as the home to

billions of microscopic


Trees fallen,



Resting upon each other’s

rotting corpse.

No pulse,

no proof of existence except

the remnants of

their body.

Newborn maggots and

beetles feast,

on their makeshift,

collapsing home.

Your rotting timber corpse

is putrid as it lays

messily in the path.

You do not


You make no


But your leaves still

blow in the wind as you

lay in eternal


providing resources

for a new generation

of life.

Nature Is Calling

i love the call of the songbird

as it begs for my


singing its

incessant tune

into the inescapable

expanse of the


does it know the

burden it lays on me

to listen to its ballads?

to be the only one to hear its

cry of sorrow?

to ignore

its chirps and

hums, just as if I

was ignoring

the answering machine

from a long-forgotten lover.

how difficult it is for me

to walk away from it

because I cannot

call back.

Mother Nature

Mother asked me what

I wanted to be when I grew up.

Mother, I responded.

I do not know;

I am too young;

there are too many options.

Mother disagreed,

she said I could choose anything,

be anything,

aspire to be anything

I set my heart to,

no matter how far away

it seemed.

A Mother, then, I said, since

she needed an answer.

I can only hope to be a Mother one day—

like you.

Mother smiled that half-sad smile

she gives me and my sister

on half-sad days.

Mother was not the right answer,

I guess

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