Golden Cottonwoods
a nod to Frost
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.
