Before the year folds
and mothers lower the cold
breath of loveliness,
before the sun sets
and stars hoist their heads
for the world to see,
and the waters cower away,
the mountains sheath,
and a majestic tree
kneels upon the soil
in search of one final glance,
one last forlorn look
at the boy who climbed,
the girl who skipped `round,
the woodsmen who passed
with axes sheathed in awe
of his mighty trunk,
a glance of mothers,
beauteous and loving,
hopeful and gentle
laughter spilling from
children’s mouths;
might we discover,
remember for the next,
and climb the tree
and offer it friendship?
After the year folds
and the breath of splendor
has eased into the earth
may tomorrow’s trees
stand tall against war.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
