The tree on top of a hill
is clearly silhouetted against the denim faded sky,
it is tall and unbent by winter storms,
but since it stands alone
and have no other trees’ root to feel and touch
it tries to reach the heavens.

Sometimes it thinks it has,
but that’s only low hanging clouds
and woolly mist of the ephemeral;
when the breeze caress
and the sun paints its leaves golden
you can hear a faint whisper,
a murmur of gratitude.