“How strange,” said the Boy, “that the grass still stands, After winds tore the trees and scattered the lands.” He looked all around at the broken and torn, At the silence that followed the fury and storm.
“Sometimes being soft is strong,” said the Hare, His whiskers still wet from the rain-swept air. “The grass doesn’t fight, doesn’t rise up tall— It bends with the wind and survives it all.”
“The oak may boast of its height and might, But it snapped in the face of the storm last night. The grass just whispered and laid down low, Then rose again when the winds let go.”
The Boy sat quiet, letting it sink in— That strength isn’t always loud or within The hardest of things or the boldest of cries— But sometimes in softness, true courage lies.
And there in the hush of the morning light, He saw that the meek had won the fight. For when the storm has had its say, It’s the gentle things that find their way.
