To imagine myself as Robert Frost
working my way through the forest
only never knowing at what cost
reading a poem, something is lost
on the reader as we deforest
a pristine world for energy
decide to clear-cut and not replant
silva ancient in its lethargy
decide to try double jeopardy
if I can get away with it as scant
versions of new evidence arrive
energy being most important
religion being our mortal drive
guaranteed of nothing to survive
ever-hearing a laughter so mordant
dare I ascribe it to divinity
in my wandering, I hear an owl
not the laughter without solemnity
as I am so far from the city
yesterday, I woke up to a howl
even now, I'm a bit jumpy
left alone in the wilderness
left to eat cold oatmeal, a bit lumpy
only to feel a chill, a bit grumpy
why do I feel I'm a bit of a mess
work for decades without any fun
only writing through the permafrost
of course, the forest fires, the blazing sun
desire for answers to questions hard won
And now the forest seems a holocaust
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