The Slow, Low Ache Of Seasoned Testing Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

I very much suspect that growing pains
Continue as our substance lays down rings:
Like the monsoon trees that grow with the rains -
Or the temperate trees that winter brings

To stasis and sleep for the time being
When the frosts and snows value strength not growth -
With the Spring mere creed for the believing
And Summer's prophesy a doubtful oath.

Rough bark, thin-skin, bast, sapwood, heartwood, pith
They are there within us. Cut through and see
The outer shell sawn back to seedling birth
Each scarred circle the making of the tree.

Can't you feel the deadwood and its dying
The slow, low ache of seasoned testing?