This home has lost the woodlands that it knew,
Which backed its yard with quiet greenery.
To be domesticated is a grace
That brings destruction to some other place.
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.
The burrow digger finds its home a tomb,
The birds do seek in vain for nest or bloom.
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.
To bear due humane grace or charity,
That burden does not lie with me, or thee.
The scars are hidden with a sculpted hedge,
‘Til only one serenity remains.