The Tree
High amongst the mountain peaks,
Stands a gnarled old tree.
Clinging desperately to the rocky cliff,
It is the only one to see.
How many years long past,
Has the tree tried to live,
On that rocky outcropping,
The mountain would grudgingly give.
Into the ancient cracks of the mountainside,
The tree’s roots desperately cling,
Barely covered in the little soil,
That the airs could barely bring.
For countless ages has it borne,
The wraths of wind, ice, and snow.
Reduced to a contorted pose,
The tree continues to grow.
Half dead in the summer it is,
From the eternal lack of rain.
Still, when the snows do melt,
It tries to grow again.
How many years more will it be,
Before the tree is finally slain,
And standing there forevermore,
Its withered shell shall remain.
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