Does a bent bow know its own true strength?
Or an arrow the path it will inevitably fly?

Does a tree choose to grow so as to spread its roots?
Or an acorn to fall just to avoid parents reproof?

Does a song ever know when an earworm becomes?
Or a breeze ever realize that it’s unheard of to you?

Can such questions fall slowly like a newborn snow?
And yet not meet their demise on the wet, cold, grounded truth?

Who knows of such things as this?
Maybe you?