by John Trent
Oh, what majesty
Contorted and ancient,
You stand your place
And arms hold heavy
The weight of the heavens
Bent and twisted,
Your branches turn skyward
With buds of green, contrasting,
Against an overwhelming gray
From atop, lone and solitary
Comes a youthful sound
My eyes take focus
Upon a bowl of twigs
A new mother sits,
With such nurturing warmth
And from a branch afar,
A father watches his early hatch
And searches the distant
Under the weight of heaven
No comments:
Post a Comment