And day does overtime,
The trees begin to primp and preen
And bend their boughs to mime
The story of the winter,
Of challenges they met.
Forgive the trees their boastful ways!
You owe them all a debt.
The trees are nature’s filter.
They clean the crowded ark.
Their struggle drawn on every leaf,
Proclaimed in twisted bark.
You fear that they’ll neglect you
As you neglect the soil,
But they will bind their suff’ring roots
To Earth’s immortal coil.