I laugh now when I think of my sad self,
Of who I was before – of how I yearned
To be an Oak-of-Righteousness or any
Fruitful Tree-By-Streams-of-Water. Yet
I was but a half-dead shrub, and dreaming
Otherwise would do no good. That was
The last of all my shadow-stricken thoughts.
A warm voice caught my roots and set alight
My spindly branches: Do not wish to be
Another. Long to be yourself indwelt
By Flame. My sad self burned away in burst
Of blaze. It lasted long enough to light
The shepherd on his way and then was gone –
Abiding warmth at roots, a promise known.
Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
