Velvet drops of rain dance on the leaves;
The sky darkens; a sense of foreboding.
Creatures of the woods, run for cover,
As the winds begin their light forewarning.
Thunder hastens the sound, crackles of lighting,
Jaggedly emboss the black canvas sky.
The way of the woods will not be the same;
Forest creatures steal a glance, before hiding.
This is the way of things; disaster precedes new hope.
We never see it coming, as the wind blows.
Violent winds whip up, shivering trees loose their appendages,
Ripping asunder what they knew, violating their safe keeping.
The aged, mighty tree stands in experience, roots firm, unyielding,
Unwilling to bend; they are the first to be torn from their mother's care.
But not all trees are subject to the taunting of the elements.
There are some in wisdom, that reach out with the tiniest of roots,
Drinking deep the nourishment from mother Earth's breasts,
Standing firm against the worst of nature's trials and tribulations.
And when the forest lays bare, strewn with kindling,
This mighty, unassailable tree remains firm, unmoved,
Seemingly unaffected by the storm, which came without warning.
Much as it is with those, who are nourished in Truth.
And such is forever the way of things; as the wind blows.