I tread soft, for the flowers are at my feet,
I bend low, for leaves hanging upon the bough;
gentle pollen, like incense breathed upon air so sweet,
grass, thicket, tree and bush, I protect and endow.
To man I am a vision, or perhaps a waking dream,
I hath my hiding places among a thousand trees;
across meadow, up hill, and over still stream,
guarding shoots yet to dance upon summers breeze.

Yet from taproot to bark, I feel only regret,
that our saplings and seedlings never have known;
where our bowers once blossomed, and now I fret,
that this dance be our last, before we are stone.
Grass, thicket, tree and bush, I protect and endow,
gentle pollen, like incense breathed upon air so sweet;
I bend low, for leaves hanging upon the bough,
I tread soft, for the flowers are at my feet.

S.K