Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
Fierce and erect in the face of the wild screaming gale,
A legion of fluttering leaves blown full, a thousand tiny sails,
The great tree stands unbowed, the true mast of the world.
Twigs snap and branches creak, the clamor of nature’s wars,
Roots roar under the strain, tearing earth to grip buried anchors,
But the trunk does not tremble, he dares the strong east wind,
Ancient arboreal pride silently scorning childish zephyrs.
A true Tree does not cower before the sky’s elemental armies,
His memory is too long, he calls the airy spirits each by name,
Spritely bravado cannot prevail over noble wooden belligerence,
High-born timber that was old before the gods of men were born.