You may have heard of the straw man, but the man I speak of was made of twigs.
He was not always this way. In his youth he once stood as proud as the tallest of Cedars that withstood the starved oars of the Pharoahs; brave against the fall of snow and ambivalent to the ill tidings of heat and rain; celebrated among villages both near and far for his beauty and virility.
But the years slowly crippled him, hollowed by nature’s winds and felled by the betraying hands of fellow men. With each reproach, he grew more silent, casting limb upon limb onto the earth until, to the eye that only perceives the depth of a sea by the hemline of its shore, all that remained of this great man were mere twigs. The people soon assigned him words that marked the passing of his tense and turned to celebrate the other Cedars and Oaks of their lands.
And though it is true that this man became twigs, I beseech you, if you truly care about truth or want to understand his story, do not let his withered weaving fool you.
For in his stilling silence, the man learnt to listen.
In surrendering to the earth what no longer served his calling, he grew wider and taller than he had ever been, awakened to a light that could finally pass through him.
And in the careful weaving of what remained of himself, he so ever gently cradled the embryotic dreams of those who first discovered the song in their heart and dared to chase the echoes of the sun across the valleys of the mighty Cedars.