Nine years the Poplar rooted above a creakbed stand,
enjoying dark rich soil, in rock sparse land,
amongst Mountain Ash and rosehip shrubbery,
reaching for the sky, a dream of destiny.

Springtimes came, winter went,
time passed, season's spent,
tree rings grew in number,
each passing summer,
bark peeling in season,
showing growth spurts as reason.

Homes and nests soon appeared,
some as early as the fourth year,
buds burst, life's thirst,
growing vigor, eagerly first,
first to drink sunshine's gift,
transforming nature's illness sift.

Dry dust dulls the leafs viridian sheen,
to deep sap forest green,
evening showers wash off the dust,
cleaning off the dull dirt crust,
revealing a brand new shine,
now fall approaching it's time.

The brown stem, now brittle,
a life time becoming little,
northern winds began to blow,
`frigid signs of an early snow,
leaf stem broke, launched into flight,
long and slowly from it's height,
back and forth with graceful form,
on a misty autumn morn.

It landed in Millcreek Creek down below,
dancing in it's current flow,
bouncing over log jambs and gravel beds,
as if it was being led,
through eddies and mirrored pools,
passing over past winnowed schools,
joining many more in a show,
as a canvas of Van Gogh flowed.