I was a young and flow’ring tree,
With branches clothed so gracefully
with blossoms white and pink, that swell
With beauty, bearing pleasant smell.
At least that’s how things used to be—
Till change did overtake this tree.
Somewhere a Psalm says flowers fade*.
As seasons pass, so did my state.
One day the sun misplaced its glow,
And mid-May winds began to blow.
For summer, spring was making way;
My flowers, sadly, wouldn’t stay.
I saw my first few petals fall;
With balding blooms I stood appalled
As gusts of wind would carry off
The beauty I was so proud of.
It humbled me, stripped me of pride,
As I watched several flowers die—
Small heads, of petals quite bereft.
But then I still had many left…
Still, just like rain, the petals drop
Quite ceaselessly—they hardly stop.
The wind dies down, yet still they fall—
Will there be any left at all?
I feel much lighter than before…
But can these branches take much more?
This loss of beauty, stripped of charm?
Why must this wind do so much harm?
But… is it harm? Or is it grace?
Oh, could it be that this disgrace
Is just the means to better ends?
The gravity** this tempest sends?
Clouds thick with rain extract their tears
As I do mine, while standing here,
Bare, shivering, my blossoms gone.
But soon storms cease; I see the sun—
Dispelling darkness, causing sight
To see, where once stood pink and white,
On wind-blown branches, evidence
Of fruit beginning its existence.
And so I see. The wind was grace—
Although it for a time defaced
One type of beauty, I would meet
One just as beautiful and sweet.