Palm trees that grow in the desert, their roots tangled in shifting sands, drinking from wells the eye cannot see, stretching upward with a faith that heat cannot break.
Each frond whispers a defiance, green against the repetition of dust, shade against the tyranny of light, a soft, living hymn where silence reigns.
They are not custom, yet they endure, a contradiction sculpted by wind and sun.
Out of place, perhaps, but not without purpose.
They remind us that survival is not always comfort, that beauty is not always harmony, and that to stand where nothing else dares…
is its own kind of grace.
c 2025 Chu The Cud
All Rights Reserved
Chu The Cud 