Forgotten March

I am like the forgotten Norfolk christmas pine,
tucked away in a corner of the room,
drooping, parches, branches awry --
a hodgepodge of haphazard limbs,
protruding forth in all directions--
reaching out for WHY?
I do not know.

Hungry for something, for many things
--it knows not WHAT--
for too many stalks were birthed within its pot.
It's time to prune the burgeoning pine--
Cast out the dead wood twigs,
make way for fresh and robust growth
--see if any inner stalks are enough
to carve a path, define a steady road--
for now the brittle needles are soon to drop.

The extremities of the languishing pine
are brown and brittle, just like mine.