Whithered Hands

Infant country stretching, shooting roots deep into untrod soil;
Its blood soaking the ground-- fertilizer forging growth-
Fallen acorn seeks life sending forth shoots of its own.
A country bore fruit, drawing strength from the land, its heart
And a stripling oak ripened, standing tall at forest edge.
Seasons clocked away as battles raged: Twin soldiers
Withstand the siege of parching times.
Will surges through veins, blood runs heated
The sapling oak looms above the green soldier below.
Spring child tends the fallen,
Her bright copper hair catching a fallen leaf.

Years season marked by crippled limbs, unyielding drought,
Of rings worried smooth, of new seedlings taking root--
To be cut down—in sapping battles over pillaged earth.
Perennial wars fought by more than they who shoot the guns, or
Hide entrenched in muddied gore. Some fight the homefight
Rooting for strength in staunch, storm strengthened oaks
As they hear of broken boughs cut from their heart.
Still the Oaken stand, facing the winter winds,
Enduring endless, numbing cold deep inside while waiting,
Waiting for spring rains to surge,
For light to give renewed meaning to darkness.

Weathered twigs fingering the soil,
Grey branches, knotted by circumstance and time,
Still point the way to another time of fire--
Where heat renews the heartwood,
Where deep rooted strength yet forges towards another spring.
While roughened bark grows grey, while green eyes grow dim,
Thirst drives, propels new shoots skyward,
The clouds of autumn gather,
Heralding the bitter emptiness
Of winter’s dream-laden pendulum.
Gnarled woman, greybearded oak settle.

Her head nods to sunset bloodied sky.
An acorn drops from her withered hands.