A tree, like man, is born to toil,

As leafage falls, lies for a time

In dormancy, then makes the climb

To start a life, through crust of soil.

If nature’s kind (at least is fair),

The sapling usually will thrive;

Takes what it needs to stay alive

From earth and water, sun and air.

Through countless seasons, start to end,

The searing heat and bitter cold,

The wind and blight that make it old

And topple many a fellow friend;

Despite the years of overuse,

Put upon by man and beast,

The tree complains not in the least,

Nor asks for respite from abuse.

Day by day, it seems to know

The One who made it, made us all;

So, when it feels the final call

To leave its place in earth and go,

It yields itself for greater good.

In dying, gives itself to man,

Providing, in what ways it can,

Warm and shelter with its wood.

Sage advice is sometimes free.