The Tree A tree stands resolute against the storm,

Its roots clutching earth’s tender clay,

Leaves whirl in a dance of surging winds,

Flexing, bending—but never break away.

A silent fortress in fading twilight,

Fingers outstretched in a lover’s plea,

Each bough a vision, all colors distinguished,

Whispered tales of wood and sea.

Branches steeped in the song of rain,

And the rhythm of songs that make the heart weep,

The tree knows the ache of each passing season,

In its embrace—a promise to keep.

• John Gould Fletcher