Smoking weed is no crime.
Smoking coal is though.
When a strapping chimney breaks
The arctic and Santa Clause with it.
And deep in the arctic, there is a fawn
With a red nose that will never see a sleigh.
When fields of terrestrial lichens
Cease to be, and so will the food chains
That accompany the photobionts.
And Santa, with his pale face
And portly tummy looks at the thinning arctic
And remembers the obese seals
That are vanishing or the walruses
Dwindling by day.
And we still erect chimneys, smoke them
On 364 days of the year, when Christmas
Should be every day. When Santa climbs
Down a chimney to preserve the smiles
On faces of little girls and boys.
We build brick monsters, when we should
Be planting little saplings. There’s something
Beautiful in the North Pole and Lapland.
Of how little mosses and lichens power
It only takes one green-frocked sapling to drown
Dozens of plumes of smoke.
Green is gold, in a goldilocks planet.
There are no carats here though
Just leafy ingots of chlorophyll.