Roots of the Father go deep into the Earth,
to hold his tribes to the wind.
Frayed gray, from past Winters, chew gnarling warts
into the Mother’s side.
Her limbs fold around her, in a Christmas child’s love,
cling to their lives, from hers.
The old battle scars go deep into the womb of her wounded trunk;
Tree holds the limbs, who hold the world;
surely her wisdom has air!
Breed, to the limbs, the wild children of the seasons.
When lust in the glory of the fall, they fall for all else;
It is a sacrifice so great as to be heralded
in the Kings of color.
A flaming tribunal to the first, last, and only,
true soldier of the Nature.
The brisk Wind that comes, in a brotherhood with Storm,
gives cause to those who breathe,
to take refuge from the elements of the Nature’s ways.
Taking its shower, rendering out the weak,
and bestowing the strong to her care.
The reverent leaves, a blessed sort to continue in the life,
and ways, of the Earth.
Those who parish, in seasonal forgiveness,
feed the earth for generations.
There is no cause greater than this,
to give ones life for the rooted remaining.
Comes the Sun, from the rage of the past,
to celebrate the survival of the fortunate few.
None mourn of the loss, in their struggle;
there is no sorrow beyond the glory of suffering.
There is, left to the Earth,
only the beauty of what is still, the Nature.
There is no time in the Nature;
there can only be the infinite sigh of forever.
Surely, her wisdom is ancient.
Flawed humans make the words to teach, inspire,
and share their simple courage.
Leaning bodies against her great strength
feeds prescient inspiration, and the greater love.
Who could have borne such an invasion of kindness, but a God.
Tree, she, in perfection, is this infinite being,
building to the Earth, the awe of the Nature.
There is no human thought can grasp her doubtless conception.
We are mere to her breath, servant to her soul,
humbled by his strength to withstand Storm.
She clings to his root, for sanctions of the fearless heart.
Though Storm is fierce,
the silencing rage of Father Root fights to save his minions.
All Storms relent to the courage of his humbled wrought;
in an eye-wink, Storm lessens his blows.
She breathes now, a softened sigh,
to holy our human eyes with wonder.
Surely, his power is earthly.
Some, as in life, do not survive.
The Father Root surrenders his kind, in a service to the Earth,
a feeding, a warming, a blessing.
To not let this happen is a flawed expectorate of the human strain.
Leave her alone, to sacrifice herself to the Nature;
let her feed, let her warm, let him bless.
Her willingness to stand, with Father Root, to fight the storm,
leaves possessive humans in terror, intrigue, and yes, hope.
Hope is only possible when humans fear the unknown.
She, this Tree of wonder, IS this hope.
But, in the Nature, she is just this child,
this long-standing, everlasting child.
Joe