Why did the wind
set down the seed of you
upon this ridge
in soil unfit for heather?
Were you discarded,
never meant to grow?
Or put here as a plaything?
For sure, the cruel wind
has had his fun with you.
Bullied and beaten down,
compelled to clutch and cower
you became a hunched, contorted thing
unable to stretch out your limbs
or cast great shadows on the ground,
denied the regal tree-ness of your kin.
But they are down below
elbow to elbow in the valley floor.
Not one of them has roots
as strong as yours.
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