Their bark, firm rugged
Immovable stubborn.
Their trunk, like a breathing stone
Holds so still while it reaches
Beneath the ground. Their leaves
Weeping willows sweep
The neck of the earth
The blow dryer force wind moves
Through their vines, a wild
Hanging coif. Some have pine
Needles, pointy and prickly
Each branch laden with a family
Of green Porcupines, their outer
Protection against the wind.
Some have pinecones,
Extensions of their solid base, hard
As their bark. Every tree
Is a different person. Their face
A different creation of God.
So many characters, infinite
Faces emerging from the same mold,
So many trees blown in opposite ways,
All reaching below the surface, digging
For life water, sucking fresh or rotten
It doesn’t matter they devour
Any stored provision wherever they stand.
No comments:
Post a Comment