Whose woods are these?

I guess, I’ll never know.

His house might be in Portland . . .

or Seattle.

He wouldn’t care to know

That I pedal past his trees

And marvel at the way they grow

Line after golden line of leaves

March toward the paper-mill

Over the hill, to become a bill

Or a flier that gets thrown away

It seems such a disgrace

To force chaos from a forest

And grow cottonwoods

Just for waste.