by Karle Wilson Baker
My life is a tree,
Yoke-fellow of the earth;
By roots too deep for remembrance,
To stand hard against the storm,
To fill my Place.
(But high in the branches of my green tree there is a wild bird singing:
Wind-free are the wings of my bird: she hath built no mortal nest.)
"The Tree" is reprinted from Blue Smoke. Karle Wilson Baker. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1919.
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/b/the_tree.html#rXjdZuqiIGja5ATG.99
putting down roots deep, deep, deep, that enable me to stand hard in the face of life's storms,
roots that nourish and strengthen me to live through the capricious seasons of the soul,
roots that help me remember who I am.
And also this:
listening for the song of my own wild bird,
following the slender, compelling melody of hope,
giving her this wind swept branch from which to fling her eternal notes.