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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In a windswept vale the tree had spread its branches Its shale like trunk defined by weather had many wounds One in particular had hollowed inside this stanchion Braced against pervading skies and silk-watered lagoons So clearly defined a hole inviting life to commune A mansion for those seeking shelter together Creatures came to find their home by legs or feather I am the watcher to tell this story of fair and foul weather Of all who have found this lodging and been stricken from this borough Each war, each death their graves to furrow A story to tell now both caring and thorough And so…….. The worker ant carrying heavy burdens forged over its bark His worker mates did follow First one, then ten, then hundreds came all as one part Residing in the hollow The Downey Woodpecker came to feast He took them to their death by the hundreds Until such time their activities had ceased So now the hollow was empty again for it was plundered That summer was hot with an august sun when the wasps took over Building a nest inside allowing them to raise their swarm Struggling to keep the bastion for their own kind and provide cover But soon reveling Dark Eyed Juncos swept inside like a summer storm Attacking like lightning and thunder Once again the hollow was empty and quite unencumbered A momma possum without a home for winter Took her two juvenile joeys deep inside this refuge haven Protecting them from winter’s strong winds that would hinter A haven of rest for this small clan to be at peace within but gave in As spring approached and each found their place away from hunters And now the hollow was empty again and lay asunder When in mid-early spring a war was forged Between grey squirrels and nesting owls The owls prevailed of course they nested and gorged On tree rats, baby squirrels, and eggs and young fowl They were strong in their stature and lasted through another winter Then disappeared in the white of a stormy wind that howled Now the hollow was empty again-they could not overwinter It was the same winter I believe that killed this tree called home It never surprised us again with the leaves and foliage of spring The creatures still come as they stop for a while then off again to roam The birds still nest after many a year their songs they still sing The hollow in this dead tree’s trunk still tarries with fairies and gnomes I still watch and wait to tell more stories of home
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