Under an azure, cloud-streaked sky,
Illumined by the sun,
Rooted in the fertile earth
It stands, the only one.

All the others have gone to seed.
Soon it itself will die.
But one last task remains for it;
Its kind must multiply.

So to the wind it casts its seeds,
Each with its parachute,
To take it where the breeze will blow
And there begin to root.

The departing seeds speak to me
Of what all things must face.
All are born and all must die; for
All there’s a time and place.

But in the meantime, I can feel
The ecstasy of sight.
What nature has provided us
Can make for our delight.

To the flying seeds I say, “May
You find a place that’s soft,
And may you be laid gently by
That which bore you aloft.”

To the plant which cast its seeds, I
Say, ‘Now your work is done.
You can join your fellow plants;
Of tasks left there is none.’

I thank the sun, I thank the sky.
I’m grateful to be there.
But most of all I thank the One
Who gave this silent prayer.