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A hundred years or more, she’s bent her crownin storm, in sun, in moonsplashed midnight breeze.surviving all the random vagariesof this harsh world. A dense – twigged veil drifts downfrom crown along her trunk – mourning slow woodthat rustles tattered, in a hint of windthis January dusk, cloudy, purplingthe ground with sudden shadows. How she broods -you speculate – on dark surprise and loss,alone these many years, despondent, bent,her bolt-cracked mate transformed to splinters, moss.Though not alone, you feel the sadness of atwilight breeze. There’s never enough love;the widow nods to you. Her branches moan.
