This is a poem about time.
Time cannot be hurried,
growth not compelled.
Patiently, mother tree awaits the arrival
of her children in spring
while soaking up the rays of the sun,
longer and stronger each day.
No twisting of her trunk,
no reaching for the stars,
no frantic labour
will hasten their arrival.
The fresh spring leaves
will arrive as they must
at the perfect moment.
Take flesh, they will
but not before time.
0
Leave a Reply