In the land of stone and water,
Millennial giants rise
And are tempered by fire and wind,
Stating to all who approach:
“This is a holy place”.
They ascend from the earth,
Gaining height and breadth
Which still the heart
And inhibit inhalation,
Their majesty commanding undivided attention,
And the ambient aroma,
Never elsewhere to be found,
Except in sister groves,
Is that of Christmas in Heaven.

Imagine that which they have seen
In their lumbering quest to reach the stars,
For they were surely giants already,
When the Mayflower reached Plymouth’s shores.
Indeed, the Son of Man would have marveled
At the majesty of His own hand,
If, as man, He would have traveled
To the New World’s promised land.

These are treasured marvels,
Cathedrals in the sun,
Sentinels and guardians of life itself,
Having witnessed the dawn of man.
Bow your head and pray, good son,
For the magnificence of life is before you,
Ancient ancestors reaching for the heavens
And forming the very air that you breathe,
Silent sentries
Rising to the God which gave them root.