There it stands
Tall
In a field of weeds
More alive than
Anything else in the
Field.

There it stands,
Holding true
To its name,
Weeping,
Branches almost touching
The ground; alone.

There it stands,
The hot sun like a
murderer,
Killing it
With every
Hour.

There it stands
With whatever pride
It has left,
Trying to get its
Bearings
Through it all.

There it stands
In the snow,
Buried
Under the weight
Like the world on Atlas'
Back; alone.

There it stands
With a black cloud,
Hovering.
It's filled with rain
About to
Pour.

There it stands,
The little
Sprout,
Soaking up all the
Water
It can get.

There stands,
Thirty years
Later,
Like a child
To the weeping
Willow.

There it stands,
With another
Species.
It's no
Longer
Alone.