The tree stood
proud on a high land
waved to wind
that played
with branches
they were laden with fruit -
drawn to the rich brown
feel of bark
to smell its aura
I leant against
for a while
I stopped to rest,
then eyes got hold
of old root
somewhat knuckled,
it was dry and gnarled
it'd surfaced to ground
a wee-bit, wanting
as if to glimpse, view glory
of all that it
endeavoured for
to enduringly labour
feed shoot
it'd chosen to burrow deep
get the best
and let it seep
through so the wood
with pride could
display, its bounty
and lushful green.
- I returned to call my Mom.