Beyond a forest glade midst woodland sprawl
Awaiting on the season of goodwill
Here planted long ago; as fates befall
Neath snow drifts touched by bite of winter’s chill
Perhaps our numbered game leaves nought to chance
Such plentiful supply of Christmas cheer
Tho’ some have turned away with looks askance
Espying younger spruce from lower tier
Misfortune sowed my roots on higher plain
Above the line of sight to catch one’s eye
Less they perceive my plight; couldst yet remain
Whilst slowly shedding pines, as if to die
I canst but offer one last hopeful plea
Shouldst choose to take me home, I’ll stand by thee