There is something about palm trees but I’m not sure what.

Something in the way palm trees look, how they may grow,

the shapes to which they bend; seemingly innate versatility

that all palm trees have; some hunger to survive and adapt,

to always thrive, as so often they do, provided right climate.

I’ve seen palm trees that survived hurricanes; of which they

must grow bended parallel, stretching across their beaches,

hovering barely above the sand and seashells beneath them.

I’ve seen palm trees appear from nowhere; sprouting out of

tiny cracks in pavement on busy streets in large, dirty cities.

I’ve seen palm trees about half a century tall and smothered

entirely in ferns, flowers, mosses and vines and still thriving

despite the parasites that clothe them by every inch of flesh.

And I also like the sounds they make on windy nights; often

shrilling like graty whistles, or else pouring constant, steady

and almost exactly like rain sticks–wood, wind, symphonies.

And all of that is great, of course–especially jazzed up, as is.

But there is something left about palm trees I cannot realize.

Perhaps as the more I see them, I’ll forget to figure that out.

All I know, as of yet is that, it’s symbolic. Subjective. Solace.