The Cypress trees stand huddled on the hill,
all warped and windswept, withered by their trials,
they shift their weight with elegance and skill,
contorting into wild off-kilter styles.
It’s not the shape they dreamt that they might be,
but theirs is not to choose their time or place,
exposed to blows unfitting for a tree,
they change their stance with unbegrudging grace.
With crooked spines and aspects worn askew,
it’s hard to make their species out at all,
but don’t they make a captivating view,
such lithe exquisite dancers in the squall.