Geese, Villain

Don't speak to me about the fields of flowers
In the noonday sun, the daffodils
(A host!), the bluebirds and the whippoorwills,
The tall wheat grass, the prairie dog that cowers
In its little home, the April showers
And the summer solstice. The air fills
With natural sounds and sights, the peace that stills
Our busy hearts, Great Birnam Wood that towers —

Lord! I am sick of all this nonsense verse
Lamenting that our old ways have now passed,
The endless wittering as cracked and vast
As all outdoors. I say there’s nothing worse
Than hopes of our redemption from the curse
Of civilized places (hopes built to last).