The wood

What are our trifles to streams?
our worries to nested birds who
wait. Wait for dawn to move them.
(Not pride nor ambition or fear or woe.)

Will the ground remember me?
In the greatness I imposed as I entered
this forest-
finding no fanfare.

Only wind.

Gentle wind,
on soft leaf.
That grew from arm from ancient yew
that saw centuries pass anew
(and only feared a lasting winter.)

Saw greater men than me pass below
below the bellowing branches-
ancient wooden arches-
to the temple to the folly of man.

Pride.

And if some inscription on them bore:
“Passers below, think not of your greatness. Think of season,
not life’s reason. For what is that
but growth?”

And these woods have seen legions.
They have heard blast of war,
strange fruits hanging bore
and many a sheltering lover sought shade.

I am nothing to this bark.
My fears are but mortal products
of our own feared worthlessness.

For what are we to these trees?
Passing shadows of many dawns
that to the trees are further drawn.
Far back. Before my own mortal pleas.

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