The old pine boughs,
Sway, fold, bend,
The sky’s wind tipping them low,
The tips downturned,
In the waving breeze,
But each bough holds,
Against the formidable winds.
When they fold,
The wind tells them to dance,
To sing against the voice of the breeze,
To sway like a flag,
Red white blue,
The colors of an evening sky.
While the boughs refuse to break,
They are just as a prow,
The swerving, pointed-tip of a handsome ship,
Muttering softly against the ocean,
As it carves its way,
Through the deep ocean’s blue-clear-greens.
The pine sits with its old aerial roots,
Its deep nut-brown chest swollen with pride,
Dark green needles catch some air and fly,
Still connected to the old boughs.
The old boughs watch over,
Through the night-morning-noon-evening-night,
Every storm and frost.
The old pine boughs are as great as a grain of sand,
Alone in the deep blue seas,
For no one appreciates that one old pine,
Its boughs each a prow,
For the wind and the rain.
Made a while ago when I was in middle school. Not the best, but whatever
