Lawrence, my son

A son is but a budding seedling
which from the father tree it grows.
Blooming, stretching, up and forth
the only way he knows.
This tender sprouting seedling
will battle natures fright.
Baring the odds, of changing seasons.
Thriving to conquer his fathers height.
Now as these seasons, turn into years.
and this seedling is no longer a sprout.
Still standing in his fathers shadow,
thinking he knows what life is about.
So this massive youth which from
the father tree had sown.
Still yet looking toward the image
from which he was cloned.
Knowing now the time has come
to branch out on his own.
Trying to create his own shadow,
for a seedling he has sown.