They strain at the ties binding them
to stakes. They don't know what's good
for them. Drifts form at their roots
like blankets drawn up around
sleeping faces. But the night wind
pulls and pulls at their branches,
and they would follow
if they could.
They cast strange shadows on the snow,
strong and lithesome children, who,
nonetheless, may not survive this winter
though they stretch for the watery light and push
pale roots through stone and frost with unfathomable
courage. In time
they will come to resent the strength
of these knots.
* * *
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