The Old and the Worn

The Old and the Worn

Stricken with age she stands;

Her scarred and callused roots

Sunk deep in rich black soil,

Her twisted branches reach

Towards the heavens above,

Each spider veined green leaf

Contains a simple tale.

That warped flesh upon her back

A strike from a lightning bolt,

That bulge in her ancient hide

A scar from a woodman’s axe,

The gouge in her rough tan flesh

A caress from a deer’s ivory rack,

But erect and strong she stands.

Her roots tell stories of their own;

Some swollen with wholesome life

Others festering with disease,

Slowly she breaks them away

To free up the good beneath,

Her toes wedge into splitting rock

And anchor her in a novel place.

She stands strong and valiant

For her brethren about her,

Not letting them see her wounds

Or the stubborn golden tears,

But she lets them see her smile

The one stretched wide across her face,

And assures them all is well.

She didn’t stay strong alone

With her kind and loving friend,

He’d reach down and hug her tight

With his great big arms glowing bright,

His entire body set aflame

With his love burning in rapturous rays,

And soothing her tender soul.

©2011 Rachel Clay