POOR OLD TREE
Hey poor, old tree ... what do I
see?
The drooping of your poor, old
limbs,
Leafless, budless, almost
lifeless,
Your shriveled branches thin as
shims.
The sap seems drained from
all your veins,
You're as a spectre, ghostly
white
Much like a spook that frightens
one,
To be avoided in the
night.
How many years have you stood
there,
A century ... or two ... or
three?
Still standing in that same old
spot,
You're like a frozen thing, old
tree.
Your history's a
mystery,
Which I wish could be
disclosed,
But you can't talk and tell your
tale,
So your past can't be
exposed.
When you were young, your arms were
strong,
They waved and swayed in the
breeze,
But now your limbs are old and
weak,
And no longer dressed
with leaves.
How sad the years have taken such
toll,
Leaving you with a stoop in your
spine,
Now you're not tall enough in the
sky
To entice even a child to
climb.
But there was a time you urged small
lads
To pull and tug on your
boughs,
And if they made it up to your
top,
I'll bet you were pleased and
proud.
Did you welcome their childish
pursuits?
Did you tempt them by rustling your
leaves?
Did you let them hurl and swirl
and twirl,
And pretend you were like
a trapeze?
When some see you now, they
feel pity,
For you are gnarled, crooked and
drear,
Even, at best, some say you're
grotesque,
And they wonder why you're still
here.
A few view you with
admiration,
While others look at you with
distaste,
Not all are aware you're even there,
For too many go by you in
haste.
Poor, old tree, you are a
simile
To many old timers I
know,
Who no longer thrive, yet are
alive,
With hearts that are full, but beat slow.
A back that is bent has tales to
tell,
About tempests weathered and
won,
Can those scars still marked upon
your bark
Tell stories of arrows and
guns?
Love stories come
from carved initials,
Made by clumsy hands with pocket
knives,
Recorded on your trunk
forever,
Sweet mementos of young lovers'
lives.
Those thin, trembling limbs
you now display,
Took many long years to
produce,
Now, of course, they don't work
very well,
And have become of little
use.
So poor, old tree ... what
do I see?
I see the scenes of prior years,
You stir my thoughts, you feed my
dreams,
And you let me smile through my tears.
Virginia (Ginny)
Ellis
Copyright June
2010
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