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I’m not supposed to be,
The fir tree in the wind.
Branches flexing.
Roots so solid.
Growing tall amongst the rest.
Immune to winter.
Surviving drought.
Bites and nibbles do not harm.
(Not permanently.)
Inside there is a core of mine.
It smells of life.
Vivacious, fresh, so evergreen.
Sap may fall in sticky tears.
Branches may snap.
Cones may fall,
Lost in the moss and rocks below.
But from beneath,
I draw upon and from,
The power untouched by ages.
I feel it.
I know it.
A semi sentient guardian of sorts.
Not a god.
A friend to all.
And that is close enough.
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