The Poet Tree

Half-starved for sunlight, its branches reach
Arthritic fingers grasping the sky.
Lesser men trip over the roots, trying to find
A foothold. Their boots tear the bark.

Its only decoration, sparse tufts of grass,
The sprouting ear-hair of nature.

Leaves fall like generations.
Swirling to the barren ground, curling until
Their edges crisp and flake away.

Romance seeps from the bough-knots like sap,
The poet tree nestles in tradition.

A man leans against the limb,
Of a curved branch, an outstretched arm.
Tastes the sharpness of inspiration.
Drinking deep from the poet tree,
He grows his own.