Days Grow Old When I was young my forested branches stretched Far and wide, and in my shady glens Both prey and predator felt their natures fetched And found in me a place to make their dens. And those days passed, and then I found myself A wooden form, veined with grainy line And lustrous hue, in shape of woodland elf But trapped in form, no longer waving vine. And now grown cold, the wood becomes a stone And further from my life I grow these nights. Marble spreads, and granite is my bone, No longer beats my heart within these lights. And is it better now to be so still, No longer moved by feeling or by will? copyright E Glas Durboraw, May 16, 2001 - Chattanooga, under a tree at night.