The tree on the hill, the strong and majestic oak, has roots spreading out beyond the safety of its beautiful canopy.

Could he be the roots that steady this noble oak tree, protecting it against all in war and peace? He doesn't know he helps to hold her steady in the storm.

Could she be the faith-filled canopy that covers the roots of this righteous tree, offering the beautiful acorn seeds that help share the love and good luck to the deep roots beyond the ground?

Like the oak tree and its roots, they both steady one another without knowing what each other does. Can our souls steady each other and love so deeply without revealing it?

They will always be connected, like the tree on the hill that produces beautiful flowers of hope in the fall, which is when they reconnect by the heart.

They both are like this tree, filled with wisdom. This wisdom gives the oak longevity and slow growth, which makes it so wise.

The longevity of their connection has been there from the start. They both have just hidden it deep inside their hearts.

Like the tree on the hill, the roots and tree are connected like souls mended together.
We may not understand it, but we hold onto this connection, one which we never knew we had.

Just like the oak tree's connection with its roots, she will be there for him, and he will be there for her, like the tree on the hill, taking care of one another from below to above.

Robert Herrick,
Poet and cleric,
Wrote numbers that were noble
When they weren't ignoble.

Xəyallar bir at olsaydı,
At tək nəcib, güclü, yüyrək,
Səyirdərdim sağa, sola,
Bir-bir tərkinə minərək.

Xəyallar bir at olsaydı,
Vəhşi bir at, dəli bir at,
Çapıb ötüm qorxuları,
Arxada qalsın qaramat.

Xəyallar bir at olsaydı,
Xəyallarımsa at deyil.
Nədir, özüm də bilmirəm,
Sərgərdan, nizamsız, veyil.

Rich, powerful,
with stunning beauty of a goddess,
That's you.

Yet, I do not hold any permanent loyalty.
I give them to anyone I see fit,
and you---are not worthy of that luxury;

"Not anymore."

The tiny red ant scampers
In a forest of greenish mold
Its bristly legs carrying
Biological modules:
A head with pincers
An imperceptible thorax
A swelling abdomen.

It has nothing but a laborious drive
A pheromone-induced servility
For the queen: the lazy, bloated tyrant!
The sole purpose being
The laying of eggs.

The noble red ant
Moves on to scavenge
Blind and dumb
Oblivious.

To the ruthless cycle
Of its existence.

There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.

My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.

My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.

To aim your place
and chase with haste
Whilst many face
the angst and grace

Informed techniques befit your crest
Smash through with force
Opposing guests
Controlling breath
Patience met
The journeys long to ascend

Focus on the foes ahead
Destructive forces with intent
Defeat dealt out inside a zone
Hate and venom will be spent
A noble art to call your own