Under stacked magazines,
A floor made of wood
Echoes faintly
The breath of ancient trees.
Man, the despoiler,
Cleaves and plunders the earth
To exploit for his gain —
Feels justified.

Under the dim canopy
Of towering redwood,
Seeds germinate
Daily, cell by cell.
Nature, objective,
Regenerates life.
A miracle of chaos
Flows up forth
Regardless of human machinations.

This incredibly trite poem is built off of Under the Harvest Moon. For whatever reason, even though I love Sandburg, this poem inspired me least of the three I’ve used as scaffold. It could be the raging headache that hindered me. It could be I’m tired of the exercise, taking the form too literally as I build. However, it’s all good practice (I suppose). Time for something else (and to stop comparing myself negatively to all the poets whose works I’m reading of late).

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