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She who is most unusual
made of something akin to a tree
but magic be something that flows
all the way through her core,
in Faith, she sits ever so still
the littlest of the three
ever so still she will sit
never minding the birds that perch
or chirp, stirring
never would she flee
gaze rested upon a still rock
barely the size of her fist.
Faith sits,
in the hope that today be the day
her magic sparks,
like Clandence who can light a fire
or Papa who stands the mightiest winds
or even Mama who could sing
bringing mist over the mountains.
Faith sits,
Papa’s voice playing in her mind
‘Faith can move mountains, dear,’
and she stares at the rock
while the other treelings play
hide and still.
Watch her a moment
give her a glance
maybe now, maybe in a bit
Faith may move that mountain still…
for three long days
the mountain remains,
and Faith dismays
resorting to a rock,
maybe that she will sway…
except how the drowsiness betrays
her head lulling from this side
to that,
and when she wakes briefly, the rock can no longer be seen.
Had she done it?
In her sleep?
Resolved, she stares at the mountain then.
Perhaps tomorrow it shall move.