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Trees are peaceful company. They stand
Calmly in random order in the bush,
And whisper conversation through the hush
With which their graceful presence fills the land.

And if I cut them down to make a trail
Or build a home for us or birds or goats
They do not die with anger in their throats,
Or hate before the scaffold and the nail.

But ah! the hurly-burly of humanity—
Contrary, narrow-minded, self-obsessed
In folly, wisdom, hate, love, zest,
And all too frequent outbursts of insanity.

Muscle me, Muse, to close with these complexities
Untempted by the equanimity of trees.

Copyright © Paul Worrell Conway October 2014