A Sapling

A rod of fineness and fertile worth
Pointing by feet the center of earth,
Questing downward and into the light
A rising spear for darkening fight.
A wrist’s girth, fitting grip for the hand,
Prepares to glory over the land.
Yet now between two stakes bending hard
Beneath a rough sky blank and unstarred,
Smooth as the sprig a straight standing staff
Threaded by a high, strengthening laugh;
Its sap rises from the horizon,
Star like, in the face of Time’s poison,
Yet now weary for but the grace to live.
God’s blessing then for any that give
Guiding skill to bend this thrashing rod
Along the upward path to our God.

 – Patrick Lauser