The oak stands tall in quiet decree, That time is the root of the reaching tree; Do not rush the branch or the widening ring, For seasons must turn before wood can sing.
Listen when the wandering wind begins to blow, You are allowed to shift, to stall, or to go; Your pace is a prayer that you’re free to change, Across the valley or the mountain range.
The flower bows low in the garden’s bed, “Nothing blooms forever,” is the truth it spreads; But the fading petal and the falling leaf, Are the grace of a beauty that is meant to be brief.
The ocean cradles the moon on its breast, Holding the hurricane and the hour of rest; You are the tide, both the soft and the grim, With a storm in your heart and a stillness within.
When the clouds turn gray and the air grows cold, Let go of the weight you were never meant to hold; Like the rain that falls to the thirsty floor, Release what you cannot carry anymore.
The stars only speak when the shadows are deep, A silver promise that the Heavens keep; For only when the day has ceased, Is the hidden light of the dark released.
And though you’ve been hidden or lost in the night, The sun returns with its gold and its might; No matter the depth of the valley you’ve trod, You will rise again from the silent sod.
~Elizabeth Proett
