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.
