Its legs drove into the center
Like a collision of a place wreck,
Soaring above the ocean
The trunk was dark,
Fulfilled with green moss
As if it were the soggy,
leftover relish on the side of the jar

You could almost see through the bark,
For it was so old
The wilted bits peeled
One by one
As the wind flew by
Ever so gently.
It’d flake off into the air,
And swiftly sway
Back and fourth
Back and fourth,
Slowly
Decreasing in height
Like the zig zags on my map

You could see the damaged spots
Of sunlight
That tore its wood apart
And burned
Inside and out,
On hot summer days…

There were stains of uneven camouflage
Leaves stuck to brittle twigs
Like dry Elmer’s glue
Its arms part out thrusting branches,
Providing
A roof for the decay below

The clouds
Slept among each wing,
Holding the creatures that crawled atop
Its apologetic fingers
Ceased after its limit,
Hiding the deterioration beneath

Although it was filthy,
The forest squalid birch was
Home too many…
They’d all lay silent,
Hearing the noises of air jolts,
Like a small, delicate whistle.
It was the epitome of beauty,
For,
All the trees surrounded it.
Center spotlight,
As if it was king of the forest…

It longed to have the width of twigs,
And the texture of there branches,
Because…
They were so fine,
And
New

I stood there,
My hand wrapped in gauze
And my bonnet,
Drooping among my hair…
Admiring earths oldest

I stood there,
Gazing at its feathery branches.
Lying there alone for
Too many years

I wondered,
Hoping to soon see
Tyler Jr. come along,
Like every summer,
To create his yearly tree house
In her arms

But apparently, not this year…