She Lays there almost dead
A few roots hanging onto her cliff face home
Green shoots springing forth at her crown
Giving their last shout of life
To passers by
Thickly gnarled trunk
Time-twisted, Wind-Shapen
To her
This may just be another day
Not contemplating her own mortality
No contemplating the complex beauty
That rests in her twisted strong shape
Her paper-machet maroon skin
Her vital ear-shaped leaves listening to the wind sweep by
And yet, she is dying!
Or, is she living?
She may not have words for either
She may just
breathe
Give
Receive
And love
Her fellow
Cliff-dwelling Friends
All swept up
In their own place
Of silent
Madrone
Familiarity