The poplar bends with every breeze,
its bark whispers light insignificance,
reaching skyward without true weight,
a fleeting promise of soft surrender.
The thorn tree grows where storms holler,
its roots clutch earth with firm resolve,
scarred skin housing the heart of stone,
every wound turning wood into armor.
An ant knows the poplar is illusion,
a feast that crumbles at the edges.
But the thorn, dense with knowing,
holds steadfast beyond every trial.
What bends may break without notice,
but what endures becomes its name.