Guardian of the Forest
An ancient ent, with roots like furrowed years,
Speaks low, and wind through twisted branches sighs.
A youthful druid leans, his pale face near,
To catch the whispered words with eager eyes.
"Mark not the seasons' shifts with anxious care,
Nor count the petals on a fragile bloom.
The sun will climb, the moon will wax and flare,
And life will quicken in a grassy tomb.
Let fallen leaves like laughter drift and spin,
Find strength in bark, and wisdom in the root.
The longest nights surrender to the thin,
First streaks of dawn - so must the strongest doubt.
Hold fast the earth, with fingers deep and strong,
And when storms break, bend low, but do not throng."
© Mar 3, Sean Denney
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