“Then the Wind shall not be blamed, but rather, our Mother and her seasons,” replied the poet. “Her Autumn was a test for the Winter that awaits. Your boughs have not yielded to the best She has thrown at you.”
The poet placed his hand on the earth where he sat, and looked up into the winking sun through the branches that shaded him.
Looking back to the tome in his hands, the poet thumbed through what seemed to be a thousand pages. Finally stopping, he placed his finger to the page, and read;
“May you rest well, and your sleep be filled with the most luxurious dreams,
May this soil shall sustain you and allow you to return with new life,
May the Winter be mild and the Spring come early, with vigour and mineral abundance, and
May your bloom be vibrant, with more colour and perfume than you ever imagined.”
With that, the poet leant back into the warmth of the sycamore, closed his eyes, and smiling fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.