to sweep soft light on one lone swaying pine,
whose needles spread majestic in the snow,
some random while still others there align.
Does poetry exist in randomness,
so governed by "The Laws of Entropy"?
For beauty cradles more as well as less,
personified in needles of a tree.
And as the pine absorbs the early sun
in raiment green, contrasting stillness white,
a sparkling gem, like golden ore that’s spun,
in awe we scrutinize pristine delight.
Some may perceive the needles lack design,
but regal splendor reigns when they align.
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