Trees, so green and reaching high,
Staples twixt the earth and sky.
The branches hold the heavens down,
Even when the winds sweep round.
The roots which we think feed the tree,
Keep the ground from falling free.
If we had not these doughty ties,
Holding down the flighty skies,
Sun and dirt would rip apart,
Each their lonely courses chart,
And we would curse the name of God,
For not attaching sky to sod.