Oh lion’s tooth, yay high clock, achene tree,
oh dandelion offspring, flying free,
why is His instruction so divergent?
The yearlong promises twisted non-convergent?
With net in hand and longing fingers,
I still look at thee with hesitant lingers.
‘Cause the end, no shift, through faith in sight;
I catch you at Zion’s hill with all my might.
But, instruction lately hath commanded: “Let her fly…
Let her be consumed by the ol’ starry sky.”
Flaming contrary to lowly logic thought,
It’s not a ‘shall’; it’s a cautiously weighted ‘ought’.
Alas, with informed decision and swallowed pride,
I kick into a vacant page with stammering stride.
And while you claim the stars; I’ll patiently wait,
‘til He sends me running ’round that idyllic hill’s slate.
Where I’ll try and net you in, with ‘chutes aflutter,
I may break cold sweat, I may start to stutter.
But if I have you, and you have me,
We’ll have a story to tell, oh, my bright-eyed achene tree.