In a field,
The tree.
Lonely.
Many years it has stood.
Times passage.
Many have left, yet
Still it stands.
Gnarled.
Branches, more arthritic,
Like ancient hands
Consumed,
By times ravages.
Scorched in sunlight,
Wind whipped.
Trunk.
Broad.
Calloused.
Hardy.
Fissures.
Open wounds,
Natural and man-made.
The courting tree.
Penknife stabbed,
Torn.
Who was TL ?.
Who was RS ?.
Questions,
It cannot answer.
Yet it stands,
Testament,
To an old love.
It weeps.
Leaves, once green, emerald,
Brown then fall.
They scatter,
Worshippers now,
Surrounded,
Beneath spreading wings.
The tree,
Ancient and mighty,
Unshakeable,
Master of time.
