This wood was a live poem in the wind 
Some short summertime ago; still warm to know; 
My rough hand feels its form, shyly 
Bone to bone, grain to grain; 
And this old grey log, splintered at the ends, 
We split one quiet Sunday afternoon 
To keep warm, breathing steam like careless gods 
While families of insects fled in fear.

This paper, pulped and rolled, bleached of memories 
Struggles to be a poem, in crisp folds, 
Mingles with sour sweat 
Passing from palm to palm; 
Lighting beacons, fanning revolutions, 
Tattooed with imprisoned thoughts, 
And quietly dies on dusty shelves 
As bright ambitions settle for a sigh.

This plastic lost its life 
When a billion trees were sacrificed 
For uncounted crushing years, and blandly resurrected 
On the torture racks of science, 
So that, perfect in form, 
The fluted, glistening lamp stand at my elbow 
Follows deathless orders from its maker in Changsha, 
And can no longer whisper in the night.
.

 Thorold May
Wuhan, China
15 January 1999