“I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree” -
Of course, I think, and who’d debate
A creed so clear it seems innate?
Deforestation, clear-cut hills,
Poisoned rivers, paper mills;
What kind of fool (or hypocrite)
Am I to cheerfully forget
I chop the wood, I pay the wage,
Each time I put a poem to page?
As flames roar through God’s nursery -
I’ll burn a disc (and save a tree).