What Is The Carbon Footprint Of This Poem?

I can tell you the cost of the pen, 
notebook, laptop computer, 
even the tuition that taught me to read
and revere the meanings of words, but
I have not tallied the weight of coal or water
or acres of land or chains of sugar spun from light
that were spent for this poem. The true cost 
would include the fear scent of pine trees
just before the bite of the saw, jagged
blue echoes off mountaintops
before their removal, and the next
line breaks should tumble
and glitter like a poison stream
splashing through acid mine waste.
I should write in some fish
before they are gone, describe
their iridescent flash, perfect hinged jaws,
solemn gold eyes. The poem says
add some frogs, with the right number
of legs and smooth skin, unblemished
by chytridiomycosis. If it could,
this poem would fly you over
leafscapes of rainforest canopy
hushed under mist at sunrise, then
surprise with the throb and boom 
of howler monkey calls through the trees. 
If it could, this poem would take you 
somewhere so quiet you can hear erosion
grind stones into sand. This poem
knows there is such a place because
it once crept in red shadows
that settle in canyons at dusk and sipped
at the silence collected there. 
This poem wants to bring you, soft
in cupped hands, a young bluebird
with speckled brown feathers, his adult blueness
just starting to shine in his tail. This poem
doesn’t think this begins to make up
for all that was lost, but this poem can only
do what words born from darkness
can do: make you love 
the broken world even more.