-There’s a timid tower accompanying my path to work.
-It needs no utterings to boast the hells of 69, and its rusty needles pinpoint its persecution.
-Many mornings, it’s displayed timber of yesterday’s bakes.
-It resembles acts of David, to its Goliath, the sun.
-In doing so, what naked eye could not fathom its falter?
-Grinding the grit, roots crush and crawl for any drop to be seized.
-Only parched clay is present, bearing no preservation, and crannies and crevices speak a cypress frustration.
-The company of the robin’s perch no longer prevails.
-Abandoned by the squirrels’ fierce chase, rustling and chattering upon various limbs, its only visitors remain the occasional passersby.
-Not even half will pay the branches deep suffering notice.
-Such a cursed world spares neither fauna nor flora.
-How could such a denominator not demand and require regard and appreciation for all kinds of life, from every inhabitant Mother bore?
-My heart snapped like one of its frail limbs when I accept its seemingly imminent demise.
-Yet, no matter how rouge nature’s will strays, like man’s away from the Maker’s, it heels and kneels to Him.
-He flings all my logic to the dogs.
-With thunderous breaths, current and torrent privileges remain His.
-The joyous dousings and drenchings they forge—his calculated biddings
—privileged healing nourishment.
-Faunas and ferns praise sonic booms, overjoyed by lightning’s arriving additions.
-He extracted the sizzling of the weeks, from cracked timber, from which green’s bloom would soon peek.
-Once inches from death, it inches towards life.
-His mighty force saves its system from the fight.
-From now on, let those needles pinpoint me to wisdom.