To Pine

Like birds over my head, filled with confusion
Circling tipsy in a solemn infusion
of sorrow and pain
of work without gain
And strain that's become a compulsion.

I cry to the skies, restless and sour
Praying strength to some remote higher power
to strive and to fight
for that which is right
In spite of that before which I cower.

And time is elusive, she's cruel and good
Nurtures small child and fells trees that stood
tall and proud before
now to earth are once more
A core that was flowering is strong brown wood.