Pine.

A Scotch Pine grows,
It's backside haunted by phantom, forgotten limbs.
Malnourished, it is
Stunted, but well over two stories.
The broken bits of the backside, the Northside
Look like the spindle of a music box drum,
Abrupt and severe stumps
Sticking out from the cylinder.

A White Pine, A cousin
Straight, tall and symmetrical,
Dominates the space
In which both trees stand.
This pine is well ordered and green,
It's branches grow at proper fractal-ed intervals,
To maximize
The sun and soil and space.

A Sycamore branch
Imposes itself from afar.
The bully intercepts a shaft of light.
The Sycamore stands proud, arms open
The pine sulks and searches for the sun.
Eclipsed, options are removed,
The path to sunlight
Repeatedly obstructed.

The dwarfed Scotch
Grows in this territory,
In the constant state of seeking permission,
Suffering from some spine disorder,
It's trunk and limbs reacting
To circumstances that have shaped it's life.
Still a short life,
Still less than half a century.

My Scotch Pine,
Still a young man,
But withered and sparse
Like the aged,
He is contorted.
He leans his brittle shoulder
Against the firmness of the White Pine,
Reaching under and out,
Scooping his arms
Out and around the shade of the Sycamore,
Shedding needles and limbs
He could no longer sustain.
The offering of branches seems impossible.
Yet, they find pasture,
An open field of light.
The bristled back of the Northside
Strains to support the ambitions of the under-branches
That bend down
And then surge up into the sunlight.

Deep rooted,
Flexible but immovable,
The trees have no choice but to obey.
They surrender to the direction of the light.
And to the rain,
And to the persistence of the seasons.
The White Pine,
Given good position,
Grows strong and straight.
The Sycamore,
Here longer than all the others,
Has reached out,
Above the canopy,
Having survived the uncertainty of it's youth.
Towering above all:
It's great advantage.

The Scotch Pine,
Not beautiful,
Not true to it's form,
But still here.
Like the others,
It remains obedient to the light.
Free will is not an option,
For to choose anything other
Than the sun is to die.
The Northside
Provides a constant, present reminder,
Of death.
The Southside branches,
Those that persevere,
Provide a glimpse of hope.

My will,
At times immovable,
At times bent, near broke,
At times unyielding to anything,
Rebelling against the very Grace
That falls like rain,
That comes like sunshine.
My will is an unruly and unpredictable branch,
Seeking warmth in fire
Instead of the sun.

But the sun and the cycles remain,
Waiting to bless me,
Should I find the wisdom to yield,
Or to yearn,
Or to make my way
Out of the bed of dead needles
And into the light.
A tree has no will
But to seek the sun.
I have no will
But my own,
Unless I give it away,
To seek that which made me.
He who made me.
To seek the Light,
To find the Son.