The felling of an oak that once stood tall a hundred years
The snapping of a sapling in it’s shade
The counting of the rings won’t tell for who the birds now sing
Or which tree leant more beauty to the glade

A lifetime on Galapagos remote and undisturbed
A century forever in the shade
Or a Mayfly of the Spring fulfilling all that hope may bright
A day above the water to it’s name

We don’t measure love by numbering each kiss
Don’t measure beauty by the launching of a ship
Don’t measure sorrow by weighing every tear
So why do we measure life in years?

The dread that haunts young fathers in the middle of the night
The stillness of an infant as it lays
The search for some suggestion of a whisper of a breath
A wait that turns each moment into days

I dare not think of anything more dreadful or more wrong
Than the losing of a daughter or a son
There’s always more to know and there’s always more to see
But perhaps in small proportions life may perfect be