The Tree

The wind comes Blows silently and strong The tree shows no fear It bends and moves according to the force In the direction of the force Never moving its roots or body strong But bending, bowing, waving As if it and the wind were one. Its branches and limbs Though not as strong Bend, move more rapidly But holding onto the body of the tree Because it remembers This strong body will be me The body to which I am attached Once bent, moved frantically just as I Yet it had no fear of the wind The power to withstand had been built within By the maker of the wind and the tree For the maker, the wind and the tree are one There is no fear in me.