I know
I’m not
oak tree-trunk
solid,
rather
its Autumn-dry
brown leaf–
cracked and
crumbling
at slight
breeze
of letdown
and uncertainty.
You’re breaking me
at the beginning
and I’m
weak
and needy
pitifully
squirming.
Please, help me
to see
Your aim
was never
to make me
impressed
with my own
shadow,
but root-
pressed
deeply
into the
soil that’s
feeding me,
green only
because the
adjacent stream
is nourishing
and the sun’s
bright beams
producing
fruit in me
each, yea,
even this
season of testing.
