The Mimosa and the Spruce

The strength of the old spruce tree and the mimosa's curliness (and happiness) The darkness of the mountains juxtaposed on an evening sky (to my eye) Far from the screeching stadiums, in the foothills Of old Elk Valley or the dragon's tail Beside a mine inside a pail a water-skipper hops and floats As if it owned its own small boat And the endless sea of green inside a valley in-between Some mountains turning crisp with fall a million miles above all the business streets in Knox and Nash and the wildfires ash and a wild fox's dash and a waterfall's crash And you can almost feel the unexploredness the overwhelming lack of boredness And a hundred years on, the spruce still stands The mimosa tightens from the hand Of a young child, maybe three or four who has never seen such a thing before who gasps and gazes and stares and squeals and flinches when they hear the sound of the wheels Of the neighbour's truck, driving up the way and a fine sunset on an autumn day It hasn't always been this way and it won't stay so maybe live your life today Maybe find some friends to play and don't forget; look out your windows It isn't forever And neither are you And neither are the mimosa or the spruce Towering above all else