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.
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