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.

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