This is centuries of devotion:
the arced crown brimming with pale,
upturned needles, the sheen twisting
taut against a dense and gnarled trunk.

400 years since some keen eye did see
the shadow of this aged shape
and swiftly moved to claim you,
entwined its very self with yours.

But had this never come to pass! What
untrained growth you could have known,
what long and lanky boughs I’d see today–
if you even drew my notice.

Let me find some visionary, to glimpse
beyond this muddled self and coax
my every dormant strength into waking:
Who might I be? Who might you?