Face On a Tree

I saw a face on this old tree, I stared and it stared back at me, of course no word yet inspired thought beyond that which the present wrought. The face had hair made of the vine, a woven, dead wood, crown of time, all spanned away and far before, part of the mystic in life’s store. The face transmitted without word where I had been once in the world a life in green walled rooms of leaf before I set to live the thief. The more I looked it spoke to me, “you come soon to this sanctuary, where mother earth will there embrace and give to you a tree’s still face”.