His age was visible when viewing his bark,
Deep crags formed from the years of growth
And pain that has carved such deep crevasses
From the worry of time that has been a constant;
Where every story and tale told is another line,
Or ripple written within the folds of his face;
Each a scar where life had taught a lesson,
Permanently etching into his skin each lash,
Whose bruises freckled his facade in liver spots
Of green lichen, clinging stubbornly to every wound;
Each a marker of a time nature had beaten him;
His sap bleeding in sticky rivulets of red amber,
Crusting from his eyes as he chased the sun’s glare...
...Branches aching from the arthritis of his antiquity,
As they reached up, feebly grasping for growth,
That had long since drained beyond the reach of roots
Worn gnarly by the erosion of rain and runoff;
Exposing his foundation to the predation of youth,
Who sought to usurp his purchase by casting shade
To hide his stature and deprive him of the light
Required to stand tall, leaving him hunched;
Crooked and warped, twisted beyond recognition.
A hollow husk full of the rings that tell tall tales
Of his history and the years of little and plenty
That all must face when withstanding raging storms,
Or freezing blizzards that burn like a wildfire,
Scorching his trunk, singeing the long grey moss
Hanging from the frail stump of his weathered chin;
Wiry strands stretching disorderly in every direction,
Spreading across his body to cover the scowl
That had been unintentionally worn into the wrinkles
With every gripe at the hungry woodpecker,
Or every sting from the angry bumblebee;
Leaving him full of leathery callouses that peel
Paper thin layers of dead bark into curly cues,
Exposing rough patches of vascular blisters,
Inviting the infection of disease-ridden pests,
Whose vampiric bites sap the thin sap of his blood,
Stealing what water and food he needed to stand,
Stubbornly clinging to the side of his mountain,
As the soil around him began to slide away...
...Desperately, he clung to the rocks deep below.
Roots wrapped tight shook with every tremor,
Shaking loose the leaves on his trembling limbs,
To fall in an autumnal corsage of reds and yellows;
Each a memory of the centuries that had passed,
Flashing before him in a montage of his life...
...Before he too started to fall, joints popping,
Limbs snapping, roots ripping, trunk cracking;
A cacophony of pain that echoed across the forest,
Followed by a moment of weightlessness that hung
...Breathless...
As time hit pause on its inevitable progression,
To memorialize the memory of an ancient oak...
...Before he hit the ground, never to stand again:
It seems there is a sound when no one is around
To hear you fall.
— L.R. Thompson
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 11:17 PM UTC
His age was visible when viewing his bark,
Deep crags formed from the years of growth
And pain that has carved such deep crevasses
From the worry of time that has been a constant;
Where every story and tale told is another line,
Or ripple written within the folds of his face;
Each a scar where life had taught a lesson,
Permanently etching into his skin each lash,
Whose bruises freckled his facade in liver spots
Of green lichen, clinging stubbornly to every wound;
Each a marker of a time nature had beaten him;
His sap bleeding in sticky rivulets of red amber,
Crusting from his eyes as he chased the sun’s glare...
...Branches aching from the arthritis of his antiquity,
As they reached up, feebly grasping for growth,
That had long since drained beyond the reach of roots
Worn gnarly by the erosion of rain and runoff;
Exposing his foundation to the predation of youth,
Who sought to usurp his purchase by casting shade
To hide his stature and deprive him of the light
Required to stand tall, leaving him hunched;
Crooked and warped, twisted beyond recognition.
A hollow husk full of the rings that tell tall tales
Of his history and the years of little and plenty
That all must face when withstanding raging storms,
Or freezing blizzards that burn like a wildfire,
Scorching his trunk, singeing the long grey moss
Hanging from the frail stump of his weathered chin;
Wiry strands stretching disorderly in every direction,
Spreading across his body to cover the scowl
That had been unintentionally worn into the wrinkles
With every gripe at the hungry woodpecker,
Or every sting from the angry bumblebee;
Leaving him full of leathery callouses that peel
Paper thin layers of dead bark into curly cues,
Exposing rough patches of vascular blisters,
Inviting the infection of disease-ridden pests,
Whose vampiric bites sap the thin sap of his blood,
Stealing what water and food he needed to stand,
Stubbornly clinging to the side of his mountain,
As the soil around him began to slide away...
...Desperately, he clung to the rocks deep below.
Roots wrapped tight shook with every tremor,
Shaking loose the leaves on his trembling limbs,
To fall in an autumnal corsage of reds and yellows;
Each a memory of the centuries that had passed,
Flashing before him in a montage of his life...
...Before he too started to fall, joints popping,
Limbs snapping, roots ripping, trunk cracking;
A cacophony of pain that echoed across the forest,
Followed by a moment of weightlessness that hung
...Breathless...
As time hit pause on its inevitable progression,
To memorialize the memory of an ancient oak...
...Before he hit the ground, never to stand again:
It seems there is a sound when no one is around
To hear you fall.
— L.R. Thompson
This piece is an attempt to strip away the "majesty" usually afforded to nature and replace it with the gritty, painful reality of long-term survival. I wanted to treat the bark as skin and the sap as blood—turning a biological decline into a visceral, gothic portrait of a body that has simply stayed in the fight too long.
