An oak, like most others, begins with a seed.
So love in the same way can have that same need.
That need is the dirt that the seed dug down into,
And the soil, just the same, is for want what to do.
It starts out so small, some might not even see.
It hides beneath soil long before it’s a tree.
And some love is oft hidden just starting to grow,
So with keen eyes only, could the right person know.
That seed remains dormant but there all the same,
And it warms to the soil growing slow in love’s game.
But it’s not just some game, and the seed knows that truth,
For it longs for more love, even though in it’s youth.
Then the soil loves it back, but that soil is so deep.
Not deep with just size, but with depth one could keep.
The soil remains skeptic, but stays just the same,
In the way that the seed did, in loves silly name.
But that love is not silly, the soil has decided.
Forever it nurtures, and for the seed has abided.
It hugs back the seed and loves it all around.
It waits for wood tendrils that grasp in the ground.
Soon something begins and the wood stretches fingers,
The grip takes more hold; the seed no longer lingers.
The time that they grew, it meant other things too,
It meant crying at times; and sometimes both were blue.
But that crying was rain, causing dampness for both,
So it only meant nothing; nothing but growth.
It meant happiness also, the times that were bright,
So the happiness then, was the healthy sun light.
A tree that has grown strong juts out of the soil,
And the two are content now, away from turmoil.
The oak keeps on growing and loving forever.
The soil and the roots, nothing ever could sever.
Those roots stretch down deep, holding fast far below,
And the roots, like the soil, shall never let go.
Mixed with time and the air, together they sat,
They grew fonder and fonder of the love they begat.
So it was that they grew, and the time that was spent,
Described only thereafter as something magnificent.