the aging stump now hollow,
                    not one to follow,
into the vibrant past
  or gift of the present (which is all we really have, even us trees)
           the future, what future?

sewing fresh bark on the outside
                             to look brand new,
overlook, please, the needle mark or two.

dehydrated fuel chips for some others'
                                              kindred fire
     if there is any green left, don't mind a
                                       little if there's smoke.

Logged many hours going nowhere,
roots of evil, to foul the air, and clench
the dirt deep down, gripping every wrong.

To the very fibre of its' being
with out knots for eyes for seeing,
        blind to all that does surround,
except what can be felt in the ground.

All will fail and finally fall,
hope any seedling falls
far from this tree,
there is no sustenance
to be found, in this clay
soil unyielding ground
once thought to be fertile
        not even agile fibrils,
                           remain.

The other trees show their
                         disdain,
reach up and up to the sun
full canopy of green broad leaves
on long strong branches
and block the rays,
**** the chances
of a life, of any life at all.

The gray stump remains
crumbling, a humbling cycle
to the disintegrating end.
To life. evermore.

©DWE082013