It Still Moves

It is not a weed.  For some a pine.  Blue-collar timber.  Servant's doors and bed frames.  But let us hope the mighty Oak.  Sure. Yes.  It will take longer.  You'll never see it grow or even think it has moved.  But be certain.  It still moves.  And mighty he will be.  No storm will make it timber; but you need to suffer, to be patient, hopefully even kind.  There will be knots and scars. But worry knot!  They also will hold its weight and direct it toward its celestial telos.

One day, a handsome man will be able to swing from its branches and rest in its shade.  But it can't be small or drooping like a willow.  O Yes.  Many a handsome man will rest under your branches, Willow, but swing from them???  I think knot. Look up! Rejoice! Just look up!  Yes.  It will hurt.  I will always hurt I am sad to say.

But alas! O the Joy. The stars' and the moon's silver melodies will dance, silkily trinkle around each leaf in the midst of the night.  Not the beaming of the midday sun, for it will be too hot at that time, but the colorful delight of dusk does exist.  It crawls between the leaves in your autumnal water-colored foliage.  You see... Joy where you just never could expect.