I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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They gouged the mountain for a power line.
Not much of a brown strip
compared to the whole green of it.
The trouble is, now when I look at that mountain,
the gouge is all I see,
like a beer can in a trout-fresh river.
Or like that spot of resentment in your eyes,
off to the corner of your love.