Note from an Esteemed Editor

What good is another poem about a tree?
Why adopt the pose of some species of realist?
That’s so last century. Early last century, really.
Since you don’t seem aware, we are living in
a post-modern, poet-truth, post-tree milieu.

In spite of the fact that 40% of the country
is covered by forest, we do not want to hear
a litany of names—birch, pine, aspen, oak—
nor do we want to hear recitations about
boreal clearcuts or wildfires in the Rockies.

Please keep those hysterics to yourself.

Our world is now virtual, and trees are virtually
useless, especially in the context the literary.
If this poem were about language, identity, or
something more conceptual, conceptually relevant,
we’d be happy to reconsider. Thank you, however,
for your interest in our publication, which appears
only digitally because we refuse the use of paper,
which would be, obviously, an acknowledgement
of the existence of trees in all their vulgar variety

Randy Lundy is Irish, Norwegian, and Cree. The author of four full-length collections of poetry and a recent chap book, he resides in Toronto, Ontario, as companion to two elderly, female dogs.