The oak stood not proud
For in love there is no pride.
Where love begins, at its roots gnarled and twisted,
Where is the oft seen beauty of the first spark?
Over time, the roots twist and turn in the direction of
the lovers' joy, sorrow, grief, and doubt.
Where one soft, infant twig may wander toward singular opportunity,
The other chases with an invitation to remain in union.
This protection is lovely to behold.
And in years, the trunk grows thick and long
With scars, weather turns, and varied shades of color and tone.
Divergent as the rudimental pieces appear,
Where one essential golden sliver travels south,
Its life's love in amber circles itself 'round,
Embracing the errant sliver, as if to whisper,
"Come on home now."
Let the assertive dance of the love tree never confuse, however,
As its branches, twigs, and grasshopper-green leaves arch always in soft caresses,
Growing ever toward the sun,
Yearning only for the light.
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