Our trees, brave and stout,
Hold a slow deep breath and glance
Skyward at the sun.
The west wind whips through
Evergreen branches, wrapping
Itself around trunks.
Mightily it pulls,
Hoping to steal them away
And leave no shadows.
But roots grip harder
Than the cold clutch of the gale.
Gasping, it relents.
It spins by: vanquished,
dejected, empty-handed.
And our trees exhale.
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