Each one is a bunch of wars
And truces, from time to time
Waged reasonably and without
Any good reason but flamed up
In one's bursting mind, like a flint.
Like a knotty and contorted
In the gusty wind cypress tree
With its blown out bare roots,
Each one clings to the rocky
And jaggy cliffs to be on time
For reproducing a plenty of cones.
What makes each one whose
Living conditions are so severe
Propagate well and be remarkable
For longevity if not that gusty wind?
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Always,
Deborah
Ron