The path long stretching I had barely stepped
upon, when upward my tired eyes were drawn
to trees, each brachiated form earthborn
a lung that breathed a man's lightness of breath,
inviting his footfall into a death
of life, where stillness, more subtle and forlorn,
shook mercy's gentle rain, the toil forsworn
in ceaseless green ascendancy and depth.
Then, stop, one of their number to behold:
gigantic grace transfixed to one true spot;
teaching that movement is but craft of worms.
A mystical resemblance moves the soul:
of time stood still, and all times here forgot;
while rising cheers now filter through the terms.