Even though you've stood for generations,
holding up your portion of the sky, they will come...
Even though you steadfastly announce our arrival
and, without fail, anchor our sense of place, they will come...
Children, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers,
for hundreds of years, have drawn a deep breath
at your sight, knowing they're 'almost there';
time to slow down a little and relax
before the last stretch home.
Still... blind to your magnificence, they will come...
In passing, others touch you in awe,
amazed at your girth, at the power of your limbs
raised in ceaseless prayer and thanksgiving.
Offering travellers, near and far, a moment's pause,
a welcome shelter from summer's withering heat,
they stop to marvel at your outstretched canopy.
Unable to treasure these gifts, they will come...
Stout and sturdy, you've withstood countless winter gales,
teaching us constancy and endurance through life's adversities.
Stirring coolest moonlight, winnowing stars on crystal nights,
your ever-present leaves provide cover for our wayward souls.
Though we humans have lost our way, you continue to guide
in the silence and slow grace of your kind. Generously and without fail,
Mother Arbutus, ancient Madrona, by your presence, you enrich us all.
Still... they will come... with hooks and saws to hack and claw.
To tear at roots so deeply embedded, Earth'll surely shudder at your loss
and Beauty flee from humans whose hearts fail to measure the agonizing cost.