In this sacred, Holy Land,
Holds a seed which is our future,
A past in root and sand.
My roots sink deep within the earth,
And tap the wisdom of the past.
My trunk holds stories in their rings,
Of this day, and of last.
My twigs grow into branches,
And send leaves that shimmer in the wind,
As though to listen to each word,
And catch each tale you send.
History lives within my roots,
Deep within this hallowed ground.
Each life and time so sacred,
Where all are safe and sound.
So please, send your stories on to me,
I beckon to the earth,
And I will place them safely in my trunk,
And tell all, of each your worth.
When I grow tired and need to rest,
I drop my leaves and sleep,
Nourished by your history,
Ever hopeful, yet for peace.
My blossoms waken me each spring,
In joy they call with color,
In voice they sing with scent.
New stories come to me, my flowers seem to holler.
So live your lives,
And worry not what future lies,
It’s held within my seed.
I will hold you one and all, as time goes marching by.
And if you ask me where this story came,
I will tell you, “I caught it on the wind,
As it went whizzing by, on way to leaf and tree,
I reached up to interrupt, and caught it with my pen.”