A single twisted tree, all knees
and elbows, stands,
stripped bare , right at
the ridge’s edge.
Wind and solitariness, rock
and gritty soil
work together
with this lone tree,
fashioning a strange beauty in
the midst of stark
surroundings, showing
what can be done.
JDG
aholdingplace 
It sounds like young adolescents to me.
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Dear Joan: Giz and I just started reading Richard III and your poem made me think about poor Richard’s twisted, miss-shapen form. Alas, he is cursed by his resolute determination to see beauty only as a physical thing and thus casts himself into outer Darkenss. Big time.
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