Photo credit Hquer
And now imagine me; I am as an old tree,
Standing within a windswept field
That was once part of a great forest.
My roots were once deep within the soil of my destiny,
My branches held aloft as if in worship of the sky.
My winter is here now; it is cold,
And the wind strengthens within the branches of my being.
I no longer can bend with it as when I was but a sapling.
Now I creak, and the timber of by being rends and cracks.
I look out upon the desolation of the forest of my purpose,
Whose destruction that the stupidity of man has brought about.
If I was a willow I would weep,
If I was a willow I could bend and sway.
But I am an old oak.
The wind blows strong, and the time of my breaking is close at hand.
Soon I must fall and all the promise contained in that long ago forest,
Shall be but a desolation.
Weep not for me for I am just a tree.
Weep for the forest that once was here, and is and shall be no more.
© R.G.Crosbie. 8/4/2002