Lifeless branches cling
to a tall, aging tree outside my cabin window;
barren limbs, her facial wrinkles, if you will,
bespeak the many years she’s lived;
each has a story, a tale sighed
into the brisk mountain air,
a tale of one-time leafiness,
of unfulfilled desires,
of longings for the energy
of sprightly dances once tangoed
with cool, bright spring-time winds,
of the wild slash of lightning that erased
so many hopes and dreams.
*
Not shamed or cowed by
all her wrinkled branches,
my tree stands stately,
tall, proud, self-possessed,
open to the skies of this now day,
accepting, holding close
each tattered limb
that’s left its mark,
has helped to etch
the story and the glory,
the joy, the pain,
and all the questions,
all the wonderings
of her life beneath
the vastness of this ancient sky
that holds in its depths
each moment of her life.