She stands, short with twisted spindles
In her own hallowed ground
Ringed with jealous oaks, looking down
From their crowded heights, in the autumn frost,
She stands, quietly powerful,
Her mustard-hued leaves gathered
As a halo by her feet,
The year's fruit in offering
For the silent mother
She faces the weak sun
Through the mist, the annual course of bark
Wrinkling further her brow
As she stands, thin and strong,
Robins singing from her boughs.
@nepion_boreas17
