This home has lost the woodlands that it knew,
Which backed its yard with quiet greenery.
[i]To be domesticated is a grace[/i]
[i]That brings destruction to some other place.[/i]
To rue the loss is mere hypocrisy;
This house itself was once a forest too.

Imposing order with their iron bites,
The blades and shovels sculpt the errant land.
[i]The burrow digger finds its home a tomb,[/i]
[i]The birds do seek in vain for nest or bloom.[/i]
With short neat grass imposed upon the sand,
Stars obviated by electric lights,

And sprinkler pipes to emulate the rains.
The wilds pressed right to their ragged edge.
[i]To bear due humane grace or charity,[/i]
[i]That burden does not lie with me, or thee.[/i]
The scars are hidden with a sculpted hedge, 
‘Til only one serenity remains.