Across from the library

A noble beech tenaciously grips earth

Its wide base two yards across

 

The gray bark a frozen lava flow

Of wrinkled, aged flesh

Century old tree

Better than the books inside

 

Its inner self presses against smooth bark

One limb a tight tourniquet against

A strangled, muscular arm

 

A mighty, strong thing

Massive will power

Clean of carvings

 

On a late November’s early afternoon

It’s a stocky weight lifter

Hoisting itself skyward

 

A clean and jerk against gravity

A ready to launch rocket

For a space journey

 

I wish to be this tree

Silent, confident, successful

Its elephant eye branch mark

Staring at me

 

It glances at a passerby

Head down on their screened devise