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The great tree stands ten feet around its base
and reaches past the peak of a steepled
church. Looking calmly, with knotted face, past
the great red doors, past the well-dressed people.
Old tree, your gnarled fingers tickle the sky,
and the sun shines on you in silent thanks;
energy seeping warmly, like rainwater,
thickening your rough trunk, bright rays of strength.
Young church, your people shiver in the winter,
earthly praises flung swiftly to heaven.
Their only reaching: blind faith and blind love.
Young church, you crave what made your whitewashed beams.
Oak and its strong heart beat rhythmically, quiet,
waiting for wind to sing clatter skyward.