I cast my gaze upon a crooked tree
and run my eyes over its withered,
sun-burned skin.
I cannot tell how old it is.
Above its faded, scoured waist it forks,
two weather-sculpted limbs emerge.
How motionless its body broken, how
green the spring around it.
I suppose that it is dead
this headless shape of wood.
Within, the sap lies still, stiffened
by unsoft time that lays to waste all majesty.

Below, perhaps, away from prying eyes like mine,
dendritic roots spread out in spidery webs;
entombed within the quiet of the earth
they patiently await new birth.

(written ca. mid 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.