An ancient spindly pine tree
emaciated by the heights,
clings precariously to the precipice
surviving winter's blight.
Limb's blasted nearly bare
by relentless mountain gales,
worn and gnarled barely alive
longing for lowland vales.
There it would be nourished
and protected from the storms,
instead of frozen and stripped near bare
by hail that's winter borne.
But there it lives stuck for life
and long it has been too,
while those below were burned or logged
their lives already through.
Gone to sawmill or to ash
no more to brave the wind,
raising up in thanks for life
its spidery spindly limbs.
by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved
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