When the fatigue of the tree festers When the leaves weep And side-sweep And sap leaks of the arboraceous bole The foul smell of dampened, Fermenting flora The bog The muck The moor Forever grot and grunge But never moans, Never loathes the morning Never curses the sun for rising Or hexes the moon, Or thinks life bleak or banished It settled in its mold The duty it was told, Itβs destined purpose As a puddle upon plates of terrain, A tamed stain, remaining unmoved And unaffected by You and I, Unaffected by passerbyβs Translucent and still, Entirely exposed and yet unseen Insouciant, Tranquil Composed Serene