Oldest Aspen in My Grove
I took root in a stand of golden aspen trees
My bark resembled dark eyes all over me.
I am the oldest of the ancients in my grove,
spared thus far from the fires of a stove.
Every fall I'm forced to forfeit my dense leaves.
They're taken by the wind, and my heart grieves
but nature has to obey and follow its course...
for there's no escaping its incredible force.
My Spring clothing turned into golden dresses
that appear to be sheered as if they were tresses
upon my branches and limbs, curved and bent,
Another season passes me by; another year spent.
I'll have to face another Winter, arms laid bare
for my leaves were taken, and none were spared
to keep me warm on those cold January nights
but I will dream of Spring instead of my plights.
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