A Poem

Many a curious time,

I pondered the miracle of the tree,

How from a tiny, corruptible seed,

She blossoms so undauntingly.

Long before her branches show,

The seedling grows her way,

Into a firmly rooted, unbreakable core,

Strong and free of sway.

When at last her branches grow,

And blossom green with life,

No rain, no storm, no howling wind,

Can destroy her in the strife.

When the inevitable storms do lash out,

And strip her all but bare,

There is no doubt she’ll blossom again,

with tenderness and care.

For she has an unshakable core,

An inextinguishable light,

No pain, no harm, no daunting trials,

Can bring her core to blight.

Today, On Tu B’Shvat,

It is so clear to me why,

I so pondered the tree’s incorruptible core,

For much the same am I.

A.