Behind the naked stone you crouched
in hushed concern,
waiting for the sun and rain
to change you from a seed to tree again.
A thousand years, with great elan,
you held your ground
against the tempest tossed,
your dignity and grace not lost.
Now your leaning trunk and branches
tell of frenzied gale.
Lo, your presence clearly shows
the passing years and which way
the wild wind blows.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment