Gnarled branches, red,
dying one needle,
at a time, reaching,
to the sky, clusters
of cones contain seed
pods,
oh 2, pump rooted
in the pale dirt of
every day life toil,
concrete asphalt soil,
where will it end up,
where will it go down,
when will the trunk be
found, with no signs of
life,
Master Arborist,
to prune to care to
be, fertilizing,
and water to the
table true, deep tap-
root,
into the Earth,
equal parts under
the day-sun, moon and
stars at night fall as
the tree stands taller,
if it stands at all.