Trees

Like long crooked fingers,
They thrust toward blue sky.
Firmly planted in the ground,
Wishing they could fly.

Thumbs grip with intention,
Hands covered with dust.
Legs pumping like a piston,
To the top we must.

A final effort made to reach,
Muscles taught in suns rays.
Looking down from Kilimanjaro,
“Hi Daddy” she says.