The Old and the Worn

February 18, 2011
Stricken with age she stands;
Her scarred and callused roots
Sunk deep in rich black soil,
Her twisted branches reach
Towards the heavens above,
Each spider veined green leaf
Contains a simple tale.

That warped flesh upon her back
A strike from a lightning bolt,
That bulge in her ancient hide
A scar from a woodman’s axe,
The gouge in her rough tan flesh
A caress from a deer’s ivory rack,
But erect and strong she stands.

Her roots tell stories of their own;
Some swollen with wholesome life
Others festering with disease,
Slowly she breaks them away
To free up the good beneath,
Her toes wedge into splitting rock
And anchor her in a novel place.

She stands strong and valiant
For her brethren about her,
Not letting them see her wounds
Or the stubborn golden tears,
But she lets them see her smile
The one stretched wide across her face,
And assures them all is well.

She didn’t stay strong alone
With her kind and loving friend,
He’d reach down and hug her tight
With his great big arms glowing bright,
His entire body set aflame
With his love burning in rapturous rays,
And soothing her tender soul.


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