Redwood trees
grow towards the sky,
pull up from deep roots
through a thousand needles,
lift boughs,
grow cones,
always seeking light.

Even trees lightening-struck
to silver skeletons,
can grow new branches
near the bottom if they must,
grow them towards the light,
as if they know
there is no other choice,
no option to grow down,
and somehow find energy
to power that branch,
thrust those needles
towards the light.

And if no green appears,
the trunk lifts naked branches
turning gold in sunset,
gleaming its
determination to stand
as best it can.

June 26, 2001


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