The Wilting Tree

The Wilting Tree
By Laedie Willacaw

Cherries and plums, flowers and weeds,
May ye forever heed the wisdom of the Wilting Tree.
With half-dug roots, and scars bound in marker,
The sun and moon dance above and sing tunes- of seasons brighter, of seasons darker.
Carousel children, changing by the year,
Cultures wither, the elders shiver- the end is near, they fear.
A grasp of the watch, humans fail to obtain,
Back-stepping and crab-walking causes their liver-spots and chronic pain.
The Tree, he sheds and slumps,
His autumnal mane withers away in clumps.
But he stands proud, both withered and weathered,
Sharing with the breeze, his wizened tree treasure.
With his roots exposed, yet deep in the ground,
He leads the cosmic cycle, without making a sound.
Hark! Cease thy blarney for a blink and listen,
Life. See the old Tree glisten.
Not ahead nor behind, the Wise just is.
Laughing at the ones seeking conflict, seeking bliss.
The world comes to him, to leave their mark,
Unaware of the transcendence taken beyond light and dark.
Hair falls, but the Tree doesn't fret,
He simply stands, bearing the prayer flags of Tibet.
At axe-wielders, nothing, he does; stands. He simply stands.
Laughing silently, and carrying the land.
So hark, ye cherries and plums, ye flowers and weeds,
And may ye forever heed the wisdom of the standing, Wilting Tree.