The Legacy
Beneath the waning moon's silvery glow,
In the hush of night, where shadows flow,
A sapling quivers in the cool night's breath,
Planted by hands that ward off the specter of death.
The young man whispers to the tender shoot,
Words of care, his voice soft and mute,
With water and love, he nurtures the tree,
A silent prayer, "Grow tall, grow free."
Seasons cycle, the tree stretches high,
Its branches reaching for the azure sky,
The man, now stooped, a faithful guard,
Watches over the growth in his quiet yard.
Leaves unfurl like secrets untold,
Blossoms bloom, a sight to behold,
Roots delve deep where dark mysteries lie,
As the man and the tree together vie.
Years cascade like a river's relentless pour,
The man's hair silvered, much like the lore,
Of the tree that grew under his tender care,
A testament to a life laid bare.
For though we water with hands so slight,
It is God who commands the day and night,
Who whispers life into the earthen bed,
And paints the leaves with autumn's red.
So let the tree's lifecycle be a guide,
A symbol of faith, with roots spread wide,
For as the man fades like the setting sun,
The tree remains, and God's work is done.