The tree stands still, its branches bare,
A trembling figure in the air.
Its roots run deep, but something stirs—
A quiet fear it never cures.
The wind it howls, the shadows creep,
And in the bark, a secret sleeps.
What if the storm should tear it down,
What if the earth beneath should drown?
Its leaves have whispered through the years,
But now they fold in silent fears.
What if the sun should hide its light,
And leave the world in endless night?
The tree, it shudders at the sky,
Afraid to reach, afraid to fly.
For though it stands both firm and tall,
It wonders if it will still fall.
Yet in the soil, the roots still know—
That even in the darkest woe,
The deepest soil, the richest earth,
Can cradle life, can give new birth.
And though the winds may break and bend,
The tree will rise, again, again.
For fear is just the shadow cast
By moments that will never last.
It stands, though scared, and dares to grow,
A testament to what it knows—
That in the quiet, still and deep,
The sacred tree finds the strength to sleep.
So when you see it shiver low,
Know that the fear will come and go.
For even in the darkest storm,
The sacred tree always finds its form.
And with each dawn, its roots will sing,
A song of growth, a song of spring.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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