The Olive Tree

I'd like to think the olive tree braves the storm,
But that's fond self-projection -
With winter's blows the olive goes along -
Its innate strength the best protection.
Wild winds dash its branches to and fro -
Like silver tresses unloosed by a gale -
You'd think the unleashed forces were its foe -
The small tree emerges hearty and hale.
Take its gnarled diminutive trunk,
Holding firm like mightier trees -
A fictive pen would say it had spunk -
It survives only by Divine decree.
True it is the tree's fruition
Comes with the oil it was created for -
Still I grant the claim of intuition
It was also made to be a metaphor.
So praise the brave olive tree down to its roots -
The embattled olive - yielding its fruits.