An Aging Forest

I’ve lived an age encased in far-off woods. This place is desolate in seasoned sun; a place of darkness holds a muted light. With oak, a sapling's life's always too dull. But air below its crown is trapped and locked, except for gusts erratic, tugging trees. Recall when I was young, a sapling oak. My roots that riddled clay and clung to earth then germinated time in vast abyss. Their tendrils wake and drill through tender soil that break the cold clay of deep memories that brim and bud with toil each dismal day. I master time over ages and years to grow and weather storms and rot endure. Others consumed by man’s desire, all fell to build furniture, homes and ships of war. My arms contorted, fertile acorns grew, that seethed with life, to seed the humus buds. Their shoots were future's oaking legacy. The sky is viewed in red. Like spider webs, my fingers ember ebony and black that reach and call for help from sun and stars. I plead for birds to fly toward the sky and hope to join spirits haloed above. In flaxen haze my ambered essence flies through skies azure to blaze with helios. A contest on aging Emile Pinet 1 June 2019