what do they call those? candles? that the pine
lifts skyward still. she is winter-killed, red
around her trunk, and cramped, encamped
between two houses, not the forest she expected
at my window as she rises, spring by spring
she bears away any excuse for not trying.
there is wind, there is sun, there is soil
the world turns, she consents to live.

Image courtesy of ilyessuti on pixabay.com