In my shade, I watched you grow
from an acorn small and fair.
You sprouted green arms below
me and burst into the air.
Soon, you rose to my branched waist,
leveled by your leafen hair.
Skyward toward my crown you chased,
finding my head abscised and bare.
Now, your time has come, and mine too —
and that you musn’t despair —
so live my son, I leave you;
my seed, my pride, my prayer.