Numbed.

A log has fallen;

it breathes on still

There it lies

on pastures green

The night; it rains;

a heavy pour

With morning dew,

a patch brought forth 

That patch of green

feared by the log

A sign of sickness;

a wicked spot

A torch was laid

but it shan't die

Retreat, return

it retains life

Then on it grew

as days flew by

The log fully coated

with moss and flowers

Although the scent

It sickens it

And never has this

happened before,

"Aha! There's so much,

so much more"

Perhaps after all,

this is the norm.