We age like oaks; grow taller, yes, but thickening too, adding years in rings that bear no diamonds but a measure of what we've learned and when.
We stand firm, losing flexibility yet growing ever upward and branching out. Roots a mirror of our progress.
We reach an age, a day when we can touch the sky–or think we can–and sap climbs slower to force the leaves of great ideas. Eventually, our skins are carved by others who seek endurance in a name.
And when we fall, we may softly turn back into earth in time. Or for a special few, go out in flames that warm the hearts of those we leave behind.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology