The oak stands strong, new life surging.
Branches wear proudly the spring green That will flourish into the fully grown Leaves bearing summer's emerald sheen. The oak's beauty is not flawless. Dead leaves blemish the bright array Of new spring growth, unwanted reminders Of the former life now passed away. These too stubborn relics have clung Through autumn's storms and winter's cold, Yet their time is done; their grasp is futile. New life will not sustain death's tenuous hold. The sweeping winds, the storms and rains Will purge the branches of decay. New life breeds and nourishes only life. Where newness of life is, death cannot stay. |
by: Diane F. Thompson (March 24, 2002) |