In a pasture carpeted with silk thread,
Green and smooth, like jade;
In a boat of bark filling up with dread,
Some trees there did wade.
“Those poor fellows down there, they’re so austere;
Their leaves, how they shake.”
Sullen, the Sun couldn’t ignore their fear;
Angst he could not take.
Their dew was cold, and they sweated unease;
Change sought their solace
But even Change, with his touch, could not tease
Those trees into grace.
So in an attempt to squelch their distress;
To make them agree,
The Sun, he departed nevertheless
And they could not see.
He knew that in the dark, they’d all be forced;
Needing to relate,
To the point that contact would be endorsed.
The trees would dilate.
With timid branches, blackened by day’s night,
Reddened leaves trembled.
And the Oak, when he spoke, he whispered white
And friends assembled.
“Perhaps, I dare say, interaction saves;
Just as the acorn
Ensures our line, contact does calm the waves.
From words we’re reborn.”
So there they then stood, finally awake.
Amber limbs and trunks
Writhed in the breeze, as then they did partake
Of words fast, like drunks.
Then that lady, the pale, corpulent Moon
Of white and of gray,
“How lovely it is to have your fears strewn.”
Said she, greeting Day.
“I have returned, never again to fade,
Lest your fear is bred
Once again. Always keep your friends close-laid.”
The Sun, smiling, said.