The Tree

Old man, you are older than me.
Older than the shadows falling through
the purple evening, cascading down
your twisted, wooden shoes.

Old man, are you tired of the secrets
held forevor in your cavernous throat,
the seclusion of your cracked and brittle
bark or does beauty of the endless sky

fortify your ageless love?

If I could be like you, constant,
lucid, planted firm and proud,
I would not be unsettled, indecisive,
fickle as the dimming light.

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