The Prince

From squalid soil a shriveled sapling sprang,

Which grew into a convoluted tree,

Whose listless leaves from blackened branches hang,

And twisted shape compels the birds to flee.

It gives no shade or succor to the tired,

And bears no fruits or flowers on its limbs.

Abhorrence and disquiet it inspires,

Except in those who offer it a hymn.

For though the tree fell many seasons past,

In falling, it revealed its fortitude,

For fire, disease, and drought did it outlast,

And by its loss, the forest was renewed.

And in the spring, when sunshine melts the snows,

Within its limbs, a silver lily grows.

I first encountered Libby Weber because of a shared interest in Snape. Over years of enjoying her writing, I was impressed by her deftness with poetry and the consistently high bars she challenged herself to clear, just for fun. I don’t know how…