On the Mortal Edge
Old oak takes time to grow intense
Each year tumbles wrinkled leaves before the snow
Slow in the morning to rise higher
Shad covers mortality below
Cracking branches show maturity
Limp on the timber twigs
Lingering still beneath cold bark
Sparrow eggs in nesting homes up there
Oval is their nature; wait to crack
Smaller birds spin blue and yellow
Weave speed like magic on the air
Through dark ages of green foliage
Collisions are rare while darting tangled obstacles
In an out instinctively
Old oak compliments the activity
With good intentions the tree holds fast
Bare to exposure, the fragility of life
Through the mortal edge birds fly
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