Not Yet
The weakest petals
Blow from the flowering tree,
And I think of myself
As a part of that tree,
My petals intact.
Not yet I tell you,
We are wrong, just
Coming into bloom,
Our roots sinking
Daily into the earth.
Not yet, I tell you,
I a small tree
You a taller, bending
Tree. The sun
Will roll over us,
And if a cloud
Of worry throws lightning,
Let's remember our fear.
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