Claire V. Bogdanos

The underlings of trees that seem so strangely bare,

Cringe, stifled without breath, height’s freedom cannot share,

For lack of space, live shaded from the day’s bright eye,

Now, briefly, in the wind, do reach to see the sky.

While in the forest’s darkness that much resembles night,

The lonely moss rose blooms , less benefit of light.

If we might pluck that flower, take it in our hand,

Observe those velvet arms, thus try to understand

How thrives this prickless blossom in such cool shadow,

Which lonesome flourished with no thought to taller grow.

In darkness, stifled, still, do other creatures breed

With spectrum overcast, they struggle to succeed,

Survive sad lack of care that elongates their height

And straining, reach the sky to bathe in warm sunlight,

Derelicts of denial exist with will instead,

Matured in other ways by force that’s been inbred.