listen:
I am that tree
blasted by vengeful lightning
gnarled limbs tortured by gales
weeping garlanded cloud lichen
wrapped in sighing mists
grey with memory.
But when seasons change
my roots sink deeper, kissing bedrock.
Fruitless branches sway and hold fast
remember ripened glories.
Sculpted by time’s angry knife
blooming green defiance
I endure.
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Love this poem. Reminds me of my high school literary magazine; one year one of my classmates wrote a poem about an ancient bristlecone pine.
Thank you! In a culture fixated on youth I wanted to honour the gifts of age; tenacity, survival instinct, and the continued potential to be fruitful. I’m sure being older has *something* to do with it too…