The live and dead tree sits hard on the ground.
One twist of bark still attached…
Like Ivy clinging to the trunk,
Twisted knotted rope like round and taut.
Green leaves, large and serrated, sprout out,
Twigs and branches caught in the embrace,
Dead wood holds up life to the sun,
Wise, wide trunk so aged.
How did you die?
We’re you struck, hit, broken, by wind or storm?
Did you find disease in your skin?
Is the clinging umbilicus of your wooden baby your clone?
Your age is ancient, your body skeletal.
Your upper limbs and branches peeled of all skin.
But still you sit hard on the ground,
Immortal, in a way reborn.