Commitment

He sat at the bank of the marsh
given to musing much of late.
Octogenarian, he but sound of mind,
stiff of joint and slow of gait,
but worth the trip to see the birds.
Birds of the marsh - there only seen.
A roll of thunder, the winds increase.
Enthralled by swaying of the reeds
as if a symphony of motion
directed by an unseen hand.
He stayed, watched and closer looked.
All reeds did not behave the same.
Some freely bent, some stood up straight.
If not to bend they'd surely break
he thought and wondered why
they would not bend and thus survive
this storm and live another day.
There weren't many, they were few,
the reeds that chose to stand up straight.
They seemed defiant strong and proud,
some sense of honor and of pride,
fierce determination - resolute,
some fixed purpose, a kind of cause.
And then the old man laughed aloud
to think these sticks had mind and soul.
Drops trickled down his wrinkled face,
a tear pehaps but mostly rain.
And then he rose and wondered why
he'd stayed so long as he had seen
the storm was clearly on the way.
One last look as he turned to go
and took a few steps back.
Over his shoulder he could see
one standing tall and strong
as if to say
break me if you think you can!
(rht - 10/6/1995)