I've fallen on my back,
and oh did it hurt.
I slapped him across the cheek with my
worn
rugged
filthy
diseased
shoe, trodden on prideful paths I shaped alone.
But there is love.
Not the cliché love of novels crafted for
blushing and pleasure,
but a love
incomprehensible
beyond knowledge
full of faith
and blessings.
Love is a man, and he pours.
The wind pains each facet of the tree,
overwhelming it, it seems
...
...
and yet the tree grows taller,
greener still.
Let the roots deepen.
Let the branches stretch.
Let the rains pour,
because they will.
They always will.
