The Crones

Massive, ancient, maple crones rise from the loam. Bereft of garments, their bark a tatter, naked roots and limbs pocked by woodpeckers. Remnants of their crowning glory, long gone; lay supine in the jewel weeds. Moss adheres to the maples northern face like chin whiskers……. and shelves of mushrooms skirt their trunks. Aged, yet strong….. still, like Atlas; they shoulder the sky.