The Wollemi Pine

In time's ravine, a green anachronism persists,

Bark bubbling with memories of lost epochs.

Discovered yet concealed, a paradox of existence.

How many secrets await the right eyes?

Branches graze ghosts of ancient lizards,

Now tickling our fleeting curiosity.

Resilience in every needle, rebuking our hubris.

We, humbled by a living fossil.

In sterile labs, we play at godhood,

Cultivating yesteryears, but can we nurture tomorrow?

Each cone a time capsule, each seed a question:

Will our descendants know prehistoric green?

Wollemi stands, bridging was and might-be,

Whispering: survival is adaptation, not always growth.

In its vale, it teaches without words:

Some treasures are meant for reverence, not possession.

As we preserve its essence, do we see our fragility?

In saving Wollemi, might we save ourselves?