On growing a home from an acorn.

First comes the seed, fat with life, wasting away to feed the shoot.
For everything given, something is taken away.
Two little leaves, spread to the sun in supplication.
I sing, in the tongues of forest and water, earth and sky.
The seedling answers.
Winter is a night, and summer a day.
Seasons pass as I stroke wood and leaf.
Branches spread, and swell, and intertwine.
Fingers trace the shape of things to come, and sap responds.
What does a tree know of the shape it should be?
It reaches for the light, and lets all else happen as it may.
Here it stands, an oak, a perch, a house.
Fertile soil gives strong roots, and a strong home.

By Jaksim Nomathi, Sylvan of Ty Beirdd.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Glacian, in the year 574 AF.