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Poem

Starting quite fragile, wet, bright and agile,
it met the first test of it’s life.
Death promptly flew down, pecked at the ground, 
a beak that glints as a knife.

But the sapling stood high, crown to the sky,
fixing life’s end with a glare.
“Who are you, to coo from on high,
when all you bring is pain and dispair.

“Why threaten and leer, drive me to fear,
before even dare calling my name?”
But Death cocked it’s black head - 
said nothing - instead, took flight,
as if running from blame.

An eon did pass, and the tree grew at last,
before Death paid a visit again.
“Why are you back, when my bark is cast;
my leaves offer nothing but pain.”

“My friend of the wood, I thought if I could,
just give you a little more time.
To grow as a tree, bear children for me, 
that I may eat from your vines.”

And thought it did wail, writhing a gale,
there was nothing the tall tree could do.
But peer deep on down, all the way to the ground, hoping a few might live through.

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