When I grow weary waiting for those things
Which nature “owes” me just for being here;
When I am out of sorts with what earth brings
My way, then I am sure I do not gear
To cosmic cycles. The moon, the sun’s broad sweep,
And each shape in the interstellar sea
Have schedules each is duty-bound to keep:
How bother with an out-of-step like me?
But, stretching patient hands to winter’s sky,
A tree, ignored completely up to now,
Communicating silently, asks why
A man expects the universe to bow
To him. A tree’s philosophy is plain:
Endure and wait six months to live again!
by Ray Romine Friday, February 12, 1954
