Old, with many
stories to tell,
I carry my thin,
manly rankled arms with great pride.
Plump are my feet
reaching deep down in the ground.
I bend while standing
up swaying in the wind.
I sleep with a frozen
face
Lying around, brave,
and dying.
With my rough face
looking at the grass so smooth.
Jealously is my heart
looking and envying the
Wind so free
uncovering treasures from dust.
The ground comforts
me for it is my friend.
My dwelling is the
oaks
With surrounding
friends.
Mother nature created
my tough trunk.
While I am dehydrated
with my arms discolored, finding out
My dried out body is
now shriveled.
Old is my face as I
see the new
Living,
I capture the last
breath of wind that blows through
My hair.
And it is wonderful.
Lisa Johnson
