Ode to a Dead Tree
A sight as lovely as a tree:
A tree cut down for pulp and boards,
Cut down for profit and rewards.
Whenever forests disappear
To fill a bookstore front to rear,
The angels sing a glorious song,
Especially if the books are long.
When trees grow high above the earth
I love to estimate their worth.
I praise the chainsaw and the axe,
Converting trees to paperbacks.
I love to contemplate bare hills,
Solutions to society’s ills.
For every tree dragged out by hooks
May soon become a shelf of books.
When men cry “Timber!” I rejoice,
A perfect use for human voice.
The sound of buzz saws is symphonic
As long as books remain dendronic.
I think of trees throughout the ages
Especially as I’m turning pages:
Majestic trees in ageless mists
Transformed into best-sellers’ lists.
Down my spine I get the shivers:
Giant forests into slivers!
Forests growing through long winters;
Spring will see them all in splinters.
The thought of trees cut down for wood,
Serving man as nature should,
Literate mankind now confesses:
“Cut the trees and start the presses!”
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Published on August 21, 2000. The original is here.