Poetry in Narrative.

Battle of the Tree's.

Battle of the Tree's.

The Douglas, Whites and Scotts

all move down then into the glen,

waiting are the Hawthorns

and they do not wish to make amends.

The Birch and Cottonwoods fall in behind

but, they are no match for the coming winds.

Poplars, tough and hardened wither away,

being seasoned, they learn to bend.

Forward they move on into the marsh lands

where the Russian Olives choke down and matte,

any refuge worth saving is now dried and gone

for there is nothing that is going to last...

***

The Oak's while lofty and strong

will rot from the inside out,

and still very few will ever remember

what this battle is all about.

With their rubbery like tenue

Hickory's can only stand so long in the glen,

as the north wind blows and bow's them down

their upturned roots snap and begin to ascend.

Swinging and swaying, the Willows buckle

for they are too watered down to face the day,

keep this thought in the back of your mind

if you do not want to fade away...

***

Fragrant are the Cherries with their fruit

that is simply given away,

to all the Maples that are too heavy

from watching this folly go into disarray.

Now the Ash's step forth all sorry and wrought

as the west winds begin its assailing,

and the sun rise's slowly in the mornings hour

to bring in more heat to the injured already wailing.

The gallery is now opened for the Cedars

to settle their needles on the floor of the courtyard,

while the winds blow harder and harder

awaiting the morning star.

Fake as it may be,

the Sequoia's remain bold,

standing taller and stronger than the others

but they too will fold...

***

The south wind begins

blowing around its fervent heat,

and the Elms watch helplessly

for they are to wiry to keep.

The rest are hewn down into the brier's

where no longer can any drink from the well,

for it has become worm-wood,

and it isn't even fit to sell.

Furs release their cones

and they flee quietly into the hills,

where the Cedars claim to provide,

they also claim that all is well...

***

The skies darken and go a-blaze

reaping up a harvest for the east wind,

slowly moving across the land

and knows that all branch's will bend.

Back in the glen

the flowers begin renewed,

the winds subside for a thousand years,

now the tree's are free once again to choose,

to do battle or to rest,

to be at one in peace,

forever is a very, very long time

to go on and be out of reach.

A.o.R.