Among the thistle strives a pine
not planted by ambitious winds
but human hands in supple Spring,
breezily moist, welcoming.
Summer sandstorms scorched it parched;
Fall flushed its friends of color;
Winter wrapped it in white shroud
concealed it in ivory clouds.
Wire won’t fend off the coyotes
intent to make their mark.
Holey drapes won’t deter winds
charging it like a cheetah.
The world’s washed out, but evergreen
the tree remains awaiting Spring.