Mature we rest in natural mooring,
By a stream, dirt and water mingling;
Boughs cumbered with clinging moss, often sighing:
Memories of darkened wood, time breaking.
Neighbors are gone, felled by axe and age,
Leaving impressions on nearby earthage;
But in their shadow grow new tender leaves,
sunward rising, growing from what below lies.
And with each morn – dew returns, and we find
Solace from broken trunk, doleful mind:
Like salve that succors the green leaf tender
Against sun that would it poorer render,
And with relieved voice windy branches cry,
in hope of a better dawn by and by.