Where I live now, we have redwoods, but not the coastal fog. The summers are hot.
THE SEVEN REDWOODS
Seated in a lounge of cushioned steel, I lean
back and follow my wandering eyes up seven
towering trunks till their limbs and needles mass
as one, hiding rigid shafts that pierce the sky.
Removed from native soil and coastal fogs, I
marvel that dry and hot have harmed us not.
I, too, was born in mist but truly grew though
warmth was scarce and a steely cool prevailed.
Thrive I do amidst a scorching heat, the parching
wind; like our trees, somehow, we shall survive.