Tripod
One friendless, fragile blade of grass may last
a time; fighting harsh elements alone.
Perchance it does survive the summer's blast,
in winter's freeze, its chances dim to none.
Not so the tough green carpet of spring birth;
with roots deeply entwined, it grows as one.
Its light - the sun, its nourishment - the earth;
through bitter seasons still it carries on.
That day will come and sooner than we know -
fair April's romp makes way for autumn's pain.
When scores of winters have besieged your brow -
my weathered hand gropes, trembling, for its cane.
A tripod, mocking winds of time stands tall -
your heart, my soul, God's Spirit ne'er shall fall.
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