Old under trees

Let me be old under trees.

Let those long plodding days be shaded by forest friends,

swayed by the breeze let us spend our days.

Leaning toward long silent moments,

deep in remembrance,

rooted in long ago ways.

Creaking in turns,

swaying when swept by the winds of the world,

old bones brittle, old wood burns.

Branches once straight and strong,

bent, broken, twirled,

twisted in trunk,

gnarled.

With faded leaves reaching for light and warmth,

wrinkled skin bark-like and  rough.

Let us know winter is coming,

and turn ourselves inward,

the sap of thoughts slowing,

prepare for the long cold dark,

though 'round us the young trees are growing.