The Tree That Time Forgot

Beneath the blaze of bygone suns,

An ancient tree in silence runs.

Its limbs are lined with lichen grey,

Like stories elders fade to say.

Once it reached for skies so wide,

With leaves like laughter, full of pride.

Now brittle bones and branches bare,

Echo years of wear and care.

Its bark is wrinkled, rough with time,

Much like faces past their prime.

Each scar a tale, each knot a name,

Of storms it met, and bore the same.

No longer green, but still it gives—

A perch for birds, a shade that lives.

Like old men on porches deep in thought,

Not lost, just slowly overwrought.

No boastful bloom, no vibrant hue,

Its quiet strength still sees us through.

Children once danced in its shade,

As once they played where grandpa laid.

Seasons passed in silent grace,

Etching wisdom on its face.

Its fading crown, a leafy art,

Drops whispers to the human heart.

Each one a season, soft and brief,

A memory held, beyond all grief.

While seasons turn and worlds collide,

It stands a monument, deep inside.

When autumn calls, and leaves descend,

They nourish earth, until the end.

A quiet dust, where life will rise,

Reflected in our hopeful eyes.

And though the sap no longer flows,

Its quiet presence gently shows:

That fading is not death, but rest—

The final shelter, soft and blessed.