Praise the street tree, planted in concrete,
That pushes up pavement with slow, patient inevitability
Praise the little yellow flower that springs out from the cracks
Praise the scrubby roadside hedge, from which robins and sparrows sing
Praise the yew in the crowded churchyard, that watches over those that sleep
Praise the ivy that clambers over slower growing things in its love of life
Praise the insects that come in to winter with us in our homes
Praise the bird that strikes up its song outside our window before the sun rises
Praise the sunsets which spill across the sky to remind us that no skyline is too high to block out the sun
Praise the quiet tenacity of growing things
Which remind us that to be human is to be wild.
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