Gently and with sorrow
I do that which must be done.
Ineluctable choices lie in wait
Their double binds gleaming and sharp
Ready to nip the toughest conscience.
A seedling. A snail.
And as I crush the delicate helix
Do I not punish it for my future crime
Of eating the lettuce?
Or, neglecting to crush it
Sacrifice a plant on its first step to Buddhahood?
Gently and with sorrow
Plucking a weedling,
The aborigine of this small plot,
That the seedling shall grow unmolested.
Editing Nature for my own benefit.
Priding myself on being ‘Organic'.
No harmful sprays,
No harsh chemicals,
No danger at all - except me!
Man-manipulating my environs
Gently and with sorrow.
And yet I beg you pause
Before dismissing such scrupulosity as idle.
And I will ask You
How YOU fare
In matters of greater moment.
And who, or what, have You crushed
To gain your lettuce.
And what indigenous ideas have you plucked out
To make way for the tender growth of your new notions.
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