Nothing Beyond Its Reach

In the dell the trees are old, grim they are and obstinate, they persist. Higher up on the slopes silver barks and slim trunks reach and stretch, light is their mood, and young their growth. Further still, A few mountain climbers hang on to a thinner earth. Strong trees, yet supple enough to withstand the wind and the ceaseless blows of the elements. Above them nothing can withstand but tussock grass their roots are as deep as death in the buried scrabble and rock. Up above, the peaks soar; for this mountain is the root of all that ascend. Thus high and low, all those that grow bow to the earth that uplifts each to its place, a just allotment of heaven on earth.