Penny’s Tree

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.