Oak

An oak stands solemn,
The wind washing through its branches.
A split trunk and fusing limbs
strain, fighting some absent weight.

Of sleepless nights and angry days
The tree still stands, gnarled and steadfast.
How does it survive the ever changing
torments of scorching heat and dagger like cold?

Why can't I stand so proud?

I feel like failure is coming from
all sides, I feel like nothing will come
from this. I feel so lost and so
desperate for answers that I
can only try to bear the wind.

Perhaps I am only a sapling.
Perhaps my branches have only begun
to tangle, my trunk to stand straight.
Perhaps I am meant to bear my weight
now, to ease my journey later.

But I am so tired... I am so Tired.

Now I sit and contemplate
this twisted and warped tree.
And as the light of the afternoon fades,
bathing the nearly broken branches
in a warm glow,
I ask in a solemn voice.

“Why? Please, please tell me.
What is to come?”