And now, a poem

I try to present the world honestly, flaws included. But I think there is a fine line between describing something with ruthless precision, and bringing people to hopelessness. So now, in reply to the Agent Orange post below, I offer a poem by Don McKay.

Some Functions of a Leaf

To whisper. To applaud the wind
and hide the Hermit thrush.
To catch the light
and work the humble spell of photosynthesis
(excuse me, sir, if I might have one word)
by which it's changed to wood.
To wait
willing to feed
and be food.

To die with style:
as the tree retreats inside itself,
shutting off the valves at its
extremities
to starve in Technicolor, then
having served two hours in a children's leaf pile, slowly
stir its vitamins into the earth.

To be the artist of mortality.