the last tree


twisted and turned
it stands
as if dodged bullets
and in fact had
on several occasions.

its age old earth moored
trunk and branches
are bent severely
with a god sense of humor.

actually though
it just doesn’t
stand there blasé
but falls over itself
in freeze frame.

its static contortion is
suspended movement supreme
and stutters when
winds make it tremble.

it is superb even if
in subtle animation
while thinking of itself as
bark covered branches of lightning;

flashing big and filling full
one immense slow mo moment
to emerge wooden bright
from the earthen cloud below.

beloved social moments were times
when they’d stood there as far as the eye
could see with birds in their arms.
Songs drifted through boughs.
Leaves rustled for miles.

once, river mirror had held them
waiting for sunrise paint
which splashed from distant edge
in rising eastern blood orange.

now, the best solitary moments
are under the star splashed dome
of night when moon
chases across the sky
and traces edges of rough skin.

something magic about bright blue
or gold stuff of night orb shine
and standing there proud and alone
with it dripping against shadows.

he returned again to when the rest had filled
rolling hills with sea of leaves now lost forever
from here to growing dim horizon
as he grasped fading gleams dearly
with ancient gnarled extremities.

years later two silver suited clear domed visitors
climbed the ridge to see and touch the relic.
his lifeless silhouette slouched there still reaching
to gather, embrace and fill the emptiness.


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