There's one in every social group
Who's monarch of the grove,
By dint of long experience,
A wisdom treasure trove.
S/He's weathered years of good and bad,
S/He's mostly standing tall,
S/He's been knocked a time or two,
But never to a fall.
Through seedling, sapling, solid tree,
S/He's grown into rough skin,
When seeds were dropped, they fell into
A treeless, grassy glen.
No longer does S/He stand alone,
S/He heads a growing clan.
Successive generations ring
The throne as though to plan.
Though many seedlings break the ground,
Not all will live to breed.
Such culling's Mother Nature's way
To build a stronger seed.
So standing there, with pride of place,
As bridge 'tween sky and ground,
Life lessons bleed through rootlet tips,
To youngsters all around.
When facing wind, know when to bend,
Too stiff will lead to breaks,
And cut the wind for those behind,
You've got the roots it takes.
The monarch of the grove became
The benchmark of my birth.
As rings of years pile one on one,
We both expand in girth.
But life is lived and lessons learned,
A better man am I,
Though lessons yet are left to learn,
Of that, I'll not deny.
Richard Higley © March 16, 2015