How mightily doth the oak tree stand?
Is it aware of how haughtily it looks in its stance? Does it see those around it and compare itself? Who can knock it from its deep roots and what can bring it to its knees?
The only weakness it knows, and a weakness it is, is the changes of the weather. Mighty oak tree, how you must yield to the seasons. Their mood swings and indecisiveness can bring about your demise, the end of the oak tree may rest only in the ever changing seasons.
Alas, in Spring you shoot your roots down, grasping towards the inners of the earth. Groping only to hades below. Above, your leaves grow with renewed colour and strength. Above your head no one will tower. Alone you stand. Clothed in splendour and glory unseen anywhere else.
Summer and its heat comes and you are the hiding place of others. Those seeking shelter in and under your mighty branches. To you there is nothing else you may do to improve your majestic status.
These two seasons brought about success and grew your stature. Who can question you? Is it what you do that makes you so great?
The truth, dearest oak tree, is much less splendorous.
Your clothes of glory and splendour fall with the change of the wind. You may consider it brief, however, violent it will be. This season is not gentle to you. It is in the fall that you begin to see how at natures mercy you are. It is not you that is so great. Your leaves are torn from your branches and alone you stand, without cover, for all those passing by to see. Shame that a pine tree will never know. A season you must stand, alone, laid bare for all to see your innermost flaws.
Does the next season bring respite? Is anyone able to shield you?
Mighty oak tree, How alone you are!
Wind, sleet, and hail assault your bare branches. No one can hide you in their bosom. Alone you must stand in the bitter cold that winter brought upon your once mighty stance. Hope is nowhere to be found in the onslaught of bitter winds that howl tireless at all hours. The sun offers no warmth and the moon no comfort.
It is here, oak tree, that you are truly realised. A tree at the mercy of the seasons. It is only what lies within your back that will stand the seasons change, as all else has been laid bare with the change in season. Old splendour decays slowly on the ground as time passes.
Yet, glimmer of hope! Warmth appears. At first, slowly. Spurts occasionally seemingly to tease. Then, longer and more frequently.
It is in the darkness--away from the naked eye-- that the innermost parts of you must radiate growth. It is coming. The bitter cold seems to bite less and the sun brigs about longer days. Light, are you brighter? Sun, are you stronger?
Next, oh tree, you have stood fast and it comes. Spring. It is round the next bend.
Remember, oh gallant oak tree. The splendour of this year will soon become the decay of the next.
Is it aware of how haughtily it looks in its stance? Does it see those around it and compare itself? Who can knock it from its deep roots and what can bring it to its knees?
The only weakness it knows, and a weakness it is, is the changes of the weather. Mighty oak tree, how you must yield to the seasons. Their mood swings and indecisiveness can bring about your demise, the end of the oak tree may rest only in the ever changing seasons.
Alas, in Spring you shoot your roots down, grasping towards the inners of the earth. Groping only to hades below. Above, your leaves grow with renewed colour and strength. Above your head no one will tower. Alone you stand. Clothed in splendour and glory unseen anywhere else.
Summer and its heat comes and you are the hiding place of others. Those seeking shelter in and under your mighty branches. To you there is nothing else you may do to improve your majestic status.
These two seasons brought about success and grew your stature. Who can question you? Is it what you do that makes you so great?
The truth, dearest oak tree, is much less splendorous.
Your clothes of glory and splendour fall with the change of the wind. You may consider it brief, however, violent it will be. This season is not gentle to you. It is in the fall that you begin to see how at natures mercy you are. It is not you that is so great. Your leaves are torn from your branches and alone you stand, without cover, for all those passing by to see. Shame that a pine tree will never know. A season you must stand, alone, laid bare for all to see your innermost flaws.
Does the next season bring respite? Is anyone able to shield you?
Mighty oak tree, How alone you are!
Wind, sleet, and hail assault your bare branches. No one can hide you in their bosom. Alone you must stand in the bitter cold that winter brought upon your once mighty stance. Hope is nowhere to be found in the onslaught of bitter winds that howl tireless at all hours. The sun offers no warmth and the moon no comfort.
It is here, oak tree, that you are truly realised. A tree at the mercy of the seasons. It is only what lies within your back that will stand the seasons change, as all else has been laid bare with the change in season. Old splendour decays slowly on the ground as time passes.
Yet, glimmer of hope! Warmth appears. At first, slowly. Spurts occasionally seemingly to tease. Then, longer and more frequently.
It is in the darkness--away from the naked eye-- that the innermost parts of you must radiate growth. It is coming. The bitter cold seems to bite less and the sun brigs about longer days. Light, are you brighter? Sun, are you stronger?
Next, oh tree, you have stood fast and it comes. Spring. It is round the next bend.
Remember, oh gallant oak tree. The splendour of this year will soon become the decay of the next.
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