Chapter 5
Bending, Never Breaking
Winds blow fierce and try to lean, but my stem is tough and clean — bow low when storms rush in, spring back straight when skies begin.
Strong winds rush down and shake the open plain,
push at my stem and drive the heavy rain.
I lean far over, almost touching earth,
bow low beneath the storm’s unmeasured worth.
They think I fall, that force will have its way —
but deep below my roots are meant to stay.
I yield to pressure rather than resist,
give with the gale until its rage has missed.
When sky clears soft and breezes turn to sigh,
I lift my gold again toward the sky.
No crack, no split, no damage to my core —
just wiser, tougher, ready to stand more.
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