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.
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