Roots twisted, tangled, firm,

hold fast to the jagged rock upon the high cliff 

her determined body

rebels, splintering, against the thrashing breeze

 

the groves below her bloom bold pink bows

their budding blossoms are lavished with bees 

who carry pollen to satisfy the trees' whimsical fantasies

until the flowers yield an overwhelming perfume

so sweet the deer don't eat of the trees' crimson fruits

that dangle low on their branches

in fear they may be poison

yes, below cliff there is intoxicating joy

 

but

 

the sturdy pine above

with needles old and sure

ever reach 

her branches 

up

towards the sun

she is bathed in light and clothed in a warmth

that the valley grove could never dream of

 

though clouds pass and shroud the pine's view,

though hail 

bruises her spine

snaps her branches

takes her auburn leaves

she still clings to the cold rock face

and her vines climb ever upward until

 

she is once again enveloped in the sun pierced sky.