Tree,
they say you’d have a story to tell;
the things you must have seen
unrecorded by Man,
his story not being the same.
But why should you tell me?
If Odin was nailed to you
for days and nights,
his self imposed agony
for insight and divination,
then why should I find those runes
among this moss and muck?
I’d have to stay here a lifetime,
my back to the bark
to hear the whole tale,
whispered softly on the wind
around your mangled roots,
through these open spaces,
your gentle spirit’s presence —
amid the silence of seasons,
of years.

Copyright Francis 2021