Golden stream, dusted by bees, All kinds haul your gold-dust, knees Bent with weight of labor, this path through you Refreshes lushly, my hot shoes
To harnessed back with tools, bags with trees, Treeplanter I am, truly pleased
To see abundance in this slim, slashed wood, trashed By unreciprocal rash
Labor, though these trees seemed ours, as your path Always belonged to bees. Along your bath
Of gold I'll plant shade till faraway's green, Burnt ground, healed with you where I've been.