If a tree falls
and paper is produced from it
has poetry already been made?

And, if this is the stuff
from which poetry is made,
for whom would it matter?

And, if it meant anything,
or even mattered,
would you pay better notice?

Or, would you dismiss it,
like everything else,
as an inundated endeavor?

But, if it meant everything
that you ever wanted,
would you stop yourself

from writing?

Prompted by this image.