The Rememberings

A storm’s destruction in the forest,
The great trees fall in dreadful chorus.

The elders cry and crack to floor,
As ancient giants did before.

And fallen monarchs, torched and burned,
Make room for growth as seasons turned.

We know no world beyond this drama;
Our roots were born inside the trauma.

We have not seen what stood before,
Yet feel the pulse of something more.

Softly waking through this season,
We too are here for sacred reason—

A reason why not all is lost:
A verdant harvest from this cost.

We bide our time in subjugation,
A slight, unyielding cultivation.

The hidden seeds the tyrants missed,
In quiet shadow we persist,

And take our hold with meager roots,
Sustained by dreams of future fruits.

Guided by older, rebel souls,
In cunning and courageous roles.

Their twisted strength becomes our hour,
Reborn into a deeper power.

Unbroken branches on the vine,
Our untamed fruits will taste divine.

Our season nears with every day,
Beneath their ruin and dismay.

And what we seek will soon become
The ancient truth from whence we’ve come.