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
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.
From the Soul,
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