Pruned; trimmed back through time
Penny’s tree stands strong like a forearm holding a hand.
Knuckles rubbed by winds of change
roughened dry, creasing and cracking into
patterns of protective crust pushing narrow fingers
where life flows into
green fronds waving in gentle breath.
In these silver scales you shimmer hope
and in the cup of your palm smiles linger;
reflections of you being held;
in an offering to this elegance
where truth surrounds,
steadying the years you are gone.
In my sojourn we meet,
at Penny’s Tree, where sits the sounds of you
in the wondering of me.
