Enero, 29

The Old Trees, with their thick bark,
their deep roots, their crag fingers
pointing in all directions
gawk at those newborn saplings,
those naive whipper-snappers
with their nearly see through clothes,
their springtime buds hanging low.
The Old Trees know what happens
when some fawn, looking all sweet
and helpless, wanders across
the forest, spots the young limbs;
first a sniff, and the sapling
allows it, next thing you know
it’s dinner and a stiff rub.
The Old Trees, all bent and worn
down in places, live with scars
from their youth, original
sins repeated each new year
by smirking naked patsies
who claim some secret knowledge.
some message from the soil,
story brung from the Garden.
The Old Trees twist in the wind,
swear if someone would listen
to them none would need such thick
bark, would face the morning fog
with such cold and unmoving
fingers, would grow thick and straight
and have such lovely children.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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