Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
  That name the under-lying dead,
  Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again,
  And bring the firstling to the flock;
  And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
  Who changest not in any gale,
  Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
  Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
  I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.

the x's on the black board
are the marks of experience
erased as the class empties

the board is nearly a blank slate again
but with faint traces of a previous life
the touch of many hands
leaves an indelible mark

the board would recollect its many roles
at the end of each day if it could
impartial to its use but glad to be free

my face is marked more permanently
frown lines now bearing down on my mouth
from both sides and above

the blue and purple bags under my eyes
store the sights that I failed to act on

I am aging
falling from the peak
whenever that was

UNCHARISMATICALLY, he frowned his displeasure.
On his hunting ground, the rough-coated trooper lunged
into a human intruder.
Predation was a constant chore where extracting food
could be hard work in a competitive and heavily armed environment.
Feeling lucky he grinned, grinding his fused toothplates,
then grabbed and pulverized the passing meal, aware that
overgrazing could destroy his future.