tree is me

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in granite of

towering rockies,

standing tall as all

blue spruce kin

round mountain glen of

colorado columbine,

i stretch my limbs

to shake off loose needles

in cool alpine breeze.

i whisper my secrets

in blue shade as

eagle soars above

my shaggy crown into thin

blue canopy of sky

where ancient stars blaze,

 and gazed down on my

ancestors who succumbed

to wild forest fires lit

by blue lightning;

those charred remains

fertilize my offspring

as evergreen generations of

conifers rise up, and up.

i show protective

mother love for shy

dark-eyed chipmunks

that dart under my skirts

and offer patient tolerance

to raucous mountain blue jays

who build messy nests in my arms,


to be


Last elder


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.


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