Dead tree leaning on a post, once so tall,now bent and grey.
Who would have been thinking, so long ago:
To sense this delight would rest so forlorn?
Then attack and strip green off this frame?
Fence post planted with other designs,
Now stands guard against these eager spores.
Moisture would hasten the end unseen,
but dry wood lasts for all to perceive.
Weathered and broken it stills proclaims,
A life once regal now perched on by birds.
Beauty returns as wind and rain,
sculpt and rename its mark to fame.
Years have withered, wind has stripped,
creating a monument to endurance’s pain.
Hope must have eyes to see something new,
If only we let go of things that we knew.
Time’s ceaseless journey harms certainty’s light.
Still, a dead tree sounds out against broken belief,
“If there is beauty in dead trees now fallen,
Might I live freely, when deadness comes wringing?”
Hope is not reasonable, concise nor aligned,
Yet futures become from seeds that seem dead.
Sprouting’s a process, it never discloses,
This bounty now hidden in tomorrow’s new dream.
Author – Bill Tidsbury