The Lonely Tree

The Lonely Tree

 

Beneath the clouds on a hill

I stand

a single carved heart lingers

on the young layers of my old trunk.

My branches once held the most

smallest of creatures

and the strongest of birds

beneath the clouds on a hill.

Cold snow has been my blanket

warm sun my light

steady wind is what moves me

on a hill, beneath the clouds.

My roots are showing and so I am old

but to the deer that come close

I am constant and loyal.  

Seasons go by with no spectacle

of the color that falls

on my leaves

or the bark of myself that darkens with rain

and lightens with droughts.

Am I here?

Will I exist?

to see new horizons.

Will anyone, anything

notice me?

Beneath the clouds on a hill.

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Great poem! Love it!