The gnarly old tree
stands proudly alone
like some wrinkled farmer
surveying his fine homestead,
treasuring years of memories.
Refusing to retire but
rich with rings of aged wood,
his trunk is twisted by time
and branches pruned by the
storms of life experiences.
His rough-skinned charm is
a shelter for nesting birds and
a shady place for summer picnics
under the faithful silhouette of
this wisened, peaceful patriarch.
a poem in my pocket 