My Sons

My Sons by Odin Roark They are branches growing, A tree’s vulnerability forever their care, Spreading roots long ago fused with love’s procreation, Yesterday’s memory so sublime. How fragile their early growth. Vulnerable budding winked into the light, Unaware initiation’s early storms, Were but an intrepid horizon away, Tomorrow’s wind and torrents patiently waiting. At times… Whipped about by uninvited tempests, Growth became a determined willingness, Nurturing leaves of graduating seasons, Into the recycled mulch of knowledge, Fermenting preparedness into wisdom. How glorious… To watch from the bows of my aging oak, Your tenacity of will, Expanding maturity’s girth of protection, Now yours to honor and share, Affording conscious coverture, Shading your saplings’ journey Begun barely a cosmic moment ago.