The wind blows strongly against the tree.
Its pressure sways the branch,
Up . . . down . . . left . . . right,
But the branch is healthy
And clings to the trunk of the tree
Finding strength there.
Fed and supported,
It merely bends and surrenders,
And does not fight.
So small and young,
Face choices of their own;
Boldness or weakness . . .
Ah, but with green veins
They cannot know the ultimate end
Is to wither or to weather the storm.
I am blessed.
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-24-2013