Do you think the inchworm frets

the loss of green?

Does he fear his reflection

within silver drops of dew

could be gone,

leaving behind

only pale remnants of hue?

If I write these words, will they

be remembered?

Will children one day find

a poem about a tree,

and wonder

at the vibrant color

described in a verdant forest glen?

What can they hope to gain?

These restless leaders

in our ashen world today—

communication

in a blink,

before inchworm loops

his next step.

But nowhere in our future

can we find color

more concentrated 

than the dark stains of pol...

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