Underneath the rubble of a tempest through the night;

Downed, a giant tree that stood through many a windy day;

Tangled branches on one side, roots loosed its former height;

Tell passersby a story of a heavy price to pay.

It stood, the tree, for centuries a sentry and a friend;

And greeted friend and foe alike with equal, measured pace;

And those who passed received the shade its branches would extend;

And felt, somehow, of something more of beauty, love, and grace.

But storms must take what they demand: a messy sort of wage;

Yet what is seen is only half the picture – more a sheath;

For that unseen is buried deep beneath the stormy stage;

Life undeterred, a treasure, is the glory underneath.

Original poem: myfiresidechat.com; *https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pace: “The Latin word pace is a form of pax, meaning “peace” or “permission,” and when used sincerely the word does indeed suggest a desire for both.”; Images: pexels-jplenio-1118869.jpg; pexels-lindsey-k-846449-1731457.jpg; Acer_tataricum_twig-wikimedia-commons.jpg