A hundred year-old tree trunk
stands fast like cement,
rigidly prepared
for encounters which may happen
once in a hundred years,
its existence dedicated
to braving probability
and boring its roots
through porous earth
wide as its fragile canopy
and deep as its constitution allows.
The odds of lifting
this tree by the roots
are now lower than ever
thanks to its raison d’être–
feeding the loam
with its shedded brown fingers,
giving Mother Nature
another winter’s worth of arguments
with Father Time regarding the necessity
of arbitrary destruction
for the greater good.
WHARVED 