Willow Wind

Up from the praire shoots,
  a tough little sprig,
not jus'  an ordinary tree,
  tis' a hardy lil' twig.

Facing up to the sky,
  turns toward the sun,
round-n-round it,
  herds of horses run.

Prairie fires catch,
  flickering flames burn on,
into the dead of night,
  greet the new day dawn.

Alone, keeping watch,
  lit by only the moon,
patienty waiting for,
  knows it will be soon.

Water reflected glare,
  amplified by the bog,
clouds, stars amazed,
  a halo, no, a moon-dog.

Seasons change, true,
  they come, they go,
no fear does he have,
  a fierce wind does blow.

There, standing still,
  so tall, so proud,
his testimony pure,
  tho' his voice, not loud.

Quiet, humble, patient,
  for his time he will wait,
that moment of glory,
  can't help, but anticipate.
(C) 2010 Randolph D. Brown, Jr.