The Six-Foot Bonsai

Born a white pine,

Lashed by the wind that blows,

From Lake Michigan to Erie,

The sapling uprooted interred,

Into a vessel small.

And willingly, for the sake of becoming an ideal,

Allowed its limbs to be trained,

Wrapped in wire, angled.

Clipped and mangled.

Striking a pose, a near permanent fix,

The Six-Foot Bonsai was all but nixed,

But for a storm that sprung it free,

The root-bound replanted,

No more the hideous tree.

Near Death and Japan

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