The big and majestic tree, I sit-in service to its stillness and the majesty of Other-
I dare not leave its scope, though, must.
Trees must believe, else how are they that sort of patient-
When can I, myself too, know that?
That patient presence, so still-
yet, not drawing into, unto itself, knowing full-well it is on a journey, pre-ordained.
It's lot-to reach out thorny branches, sticks, really and offer out hope.
It is a daring journey, hope, but a full filling comes at last
to those who daren't not have patience, hope.
The Majesty of tree beside you, to show how ordinarily done,
following directions 'til solid forms are still and bare
and we, too, reach out our thin, raw arms to Heaven with our hope-
this blissful, unworn form, more beautiful than we could have hoped, reflected in our shadowy selves,
generate a self more beautiful than we could have known, alone.
Go, there, then, and sit, below;
bare all your branches and join what is Known:
the springing forth of you shall be borne,
but not yet, not yet, not-no; the wind and cold must do their level best
to shake your truths, and move you; You! remain so fast instead and
sow; The Majesty of trees don't hope-they Know.
