A poem I wrote today:
As poetic as my soul may be,
I fear I shall never best a tree.
For strong and silent in the wood,
From age to age the tree has stood.
The rains may come, the sleet may dither,
But still, in forbearance, your branches ne'er wither.
Men may war, and hearts may churn,
but ever deep, your roots, they turn.
Deep calls to deep, as you onward go,
though all around you, as a show,
the sands of time and men, so frail,
boast in their fleeting, with much travail.
I see the tree, and plainly shod,
the footprint of Creator God.
Much love and care He grants to thee,
O lovely, swaying forest tree.
And if He cares so much for thee,
How much more must He care for me!
Humbly, I kneel, beneath your leaves,
and pray that I should be as thee,
Meek, yet mighty,
Rooted in love,
And of the turbulence round me, unmoved.
When I am gone, let it be of me,
That I was poetic like a tree.