The Standing Tree

I ask again,

“Has not yet the flowing waters of this stream run dry?!”

Pooling, pressing, pushing, dripping.

In a desperate voice I cry.

The breeze is soft and cool

as it washes over me in haste.

And still I stand and sway in wait

with only time to waste.

Peace lingers, waiting, far from me

hidden from my eyes.

“It will come, I promise.”

Whispered from the lips of the wise.

And when and where will I find it?

Standing tall and not with ease.

Will it come floating softly

on tomorrow’s gentle breeze?

How long must I wait and stand

and clench and grip and hold?!

Who will prop me back in place

if I begin to fold?

His promises will never fail.

His time is all his own.

A tree He planted, waters and loves,

until it’s fully grown.

So waters must flow and roots must grow

in time both deep and strong.

And I will stand and hold and wait

and hope it’s not too long.