...and then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But lit it go, Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation.
Where, as the times implore our true involvement.
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
I wonder what sadness Mary knew so young. Was it one experience? Many? Was she born with the gift of sight to know that beauty comes from pain? Dreaming of the original forests of this world, and the trees I have known felled in Guatemala, I lament, and bask in the sun's rising this day upon trees that are with me today, though they are but a remnant of the original splendor that once spread across the Eastern Coast of North America. Yes indeed, when a tree falls a far land away, it is heard in the crashing of our hearts.