The Tree

You now call me an old man

An over the hill seventy-one-year old

But you have no idea at all

What you are looking at


You see the rough bark

Of the old tree

Not the rings of age

Of experience, laughter and pain


You see the brownish decaying leafs

Fluttering hesitantly towards the ground

Not the vibrant green they once were

Soaking up the sunlight


You see the old gnarled branches

The damage from fierce storms

Not thinking about the sap

Still flowing strong


Look inside the tree

Continuously renewed

Brimming with life

Young forever


And you see me

Talk story

Leave one comment for The Tree

This website uses cookies to offer you a better browsing experience. By browsing this website, you agree to its use of cookies.