The Sassafras trees
Hold out their fragile hands,
Praying to some ancient God sitting in the mountains
Who sends the rain,
Who makes the chiffon veil of mist come down in the
Wetness of winter morning.
The silent God,
Older than the Huon pine standing timeless by the river,
Older than the river itself,
The river which comes from the heart of the Earth
And washes away all the years left lying on the forest floor
When the trees outgrow them.
God of the endless age,
Amen.
In the mossy nest of their fingers
The sassafras hold water,
Perfect drops like tiny mirrors,
Encompassing their souls,
Praying,
And man, frightened by seeing eternity
Destroys before he can understand.
--- Margaret Finney
