Tree

He is a gentle giant, made May what it came to be, miles and miles of grown and dead yellow leaves mark his strong branch arms, repeating a love once new now old playwright history.

The shade which keeps me cool is the lessons harsh winter sprouted now in his bark when the birds claw harsh and their bright chirps are too loud. He sits and watches the world build and crumble, noting orange and yellow as the construction he alike undergoes as autumn changes him from naive boy to an individual fellow.

In the holes dented in his skin by life’s weather, sunlight and warmth feel closer, hoping animals seek shelter and comfort. No one can move such a forestry of a man, who will only fall down as time rings around his trunk for the last time, dating destruction with mighty love only an axe cut will find.

Horses which graze from the pasture he raised, will find him as a mirror for more adventure that brings a deep sleep and does perfectly retain. No blood pumps through his veins, just water from the stream that collects cold rain, he is icy in stature and long in maturing change, closer to the kingdom built on his impenetrable root veins.

As I sit by his extension, the air breathes sweeter, my tears fall soaked, honoring his protective demeanor. How I wish he could move to meet me in the meadow, I till the land as big as his soul, but his home is in gifting us consistency to hole his skeleton, to crack and break and pry until it is he alone.

He understands the mistakes of us people who live above the soil, but wishes he had never seen his fellow brother's blood fill his own root hollows. We ask, we beg, we plead for his reason as to why we seek and destroy, and in his silence, we hear the horror; eternal consumption over care makes us bleed, and his color will finally return after we meet our eternal sleep.