A VOICE FROM THE FIRE
By Maynard W. Peterson

One hundred years I grew, and watched the seasons change,
My swaying trunk defied the gales that swept along the range,
My burdened limbs have bended low with ice and sleet and snow,
And rains have left my needles wet and quenched the roots below.

A sentinel on sunny day, or stormy night and black,
I’ve watched the forest and the lake their play of life enact,
Shy creatures of the woodland on my soft brown carpet trod,
Birds nested in my branches and their songs were my reward.

For a century there I stood, but the woodsman came at last,
His sharp and singing saw cut through my heart and down I crashed.
Now the hearthfire burns me with its bright and hissing blaze,
While on these flames with dreaming eyes you happy people gaze.

I wish that I could give to you the peace that I have gained
By nightly whisperings with the stars when on the ridge I reigned.
The many secrets of the woods I wish that I could tell,
And all of what I saw and heard and felt before I fell.

I wish that I could see by my red light’s flickering glow
A look of understanding on your radiant faces show.
Dust is not the end for you, nor strife endured in vain.
Even my spirit -- that of a tree -- eternal life shall gain.

On the morrow my cold gray ashes thinly will be spread,
Where the seeking roots of my companions will be fed.
Hence life for me will then begin to grow anew…
My friends, has God provided any less than this for you?

Copyright © 1943 by Maynard Warner Peterson