Old Tree

It stands near
the corner of my yard,
mostly leafless,
limbs thinning,
many stubbornly hanging on,
remaining perches for the birds.
Handsomely gnarly,
a kind of character
for those
who take the time
to see beyond
its weathered complexion
and find stories in its
cracked and wrinkled prose,
to hear its melancholy songs
coaxed out and
caressed
by breezes and winds.
Its shade and climbers are gone,
as are its older companions.
It has stood steadfast through
lifetimes of seasons from
the gentle to the terrifying,
hot and cold,
wind, fire, and rain.
Now struggling
with withering roots,
eroding soil, and
barely
available water,
still its days cannot be numbered.
In Nature’s time,
its bark and limbs
loosen slowly and drop,
and the roots give way
until the Old Tree falls,
finally,
in its return
to Mother Earth.