Weathering The Storms Poem by Dennis Lange

Once, in its beauty, this tree stood,
Full for the eye to see
The glory of its leaves and wood,
Splendor and symmetry.

It stands this day, forlorn and bare,
Alone, fresh stripped and shorn,
Like sheep of wool, when weather's fair,
Like ear shucked of its corn.

If trouble comes in threes, there's more -
And true, now looms new storm
That will assault and strike before
The tree regains its form.

How can some stand successive blasts
Of wind, and waves of woe?
How can some suffer pain that lasts
Beyond what most will know?

It is a secret none can tell
But would, if just they could.
For even those who bear up well
Don't know just how they've stood.

Perhaps it's merely day by day,
And never more than one,
That is the secret of the way
To stand and say you've won.

And certainly, it must be true
That character of root -
How deep it is, in what soil grew
That settles all dispute.

And last, it may be other ones,
The ones who won before,
The ones who faced down all the guns,
Stood ready for some more.

Just knowing that some others stand,
Gives grit to those now stressed.
They, too, might join that hearty band
And pass the newest test.

So, tender tree, forlorn and bare,
In sights of coming storm,
We root for you in ev'ry prayer
That you withstand all harm.

Stand firm and steadfast in your woe;
We watchers want to see
Two things in one: you bear this blow;
Our future victory.