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.