this old tree

The gnarled branches of this old tree
Reach out to touch and encircle me
Like fingers of steel they grasp and tear
And asunder my soul without thought or care

The face in the scrabbled skin of this old tree
Stares straight ahead and looks right through me
For of importance not is insignificant ken
When matters of world course and spin

Yet in the deepest reaches of this old tree
There is hope abundant in spite of me
For eons its roots have scrambled and sought
For the elusive phantom of purest draught.

And though I raise my axe to this old tree
It fears not and laughs soundly at me
Since my puny tool no threat does make
To the timeless path this old tree must take.


©2008 Bobby Barnhart