Just off a country road a balding tire
Reclines in spring upon a pinkish spray
Of dogwood, which on any better day
Supports, at least in poems, a “feathered choir,”
Or, worse, that “lifts to God its fair attire,”
But now bends low in sullen disarray,
The black ring crushing the sweet display —
Rubber canceling that which should inspire.
But why? Was this despoiler thus bestowing
His contempt upon Joyce Kilmer’s stance?
Or is it fair to say that he was showing
A vague and drear suspicion, quickly growing,
That blossoms are aberrant happenstance,
Like you and me and him who did the throwing?