I stand with one remaining finger pointed at heaven,
Atmosphere and weather sent to feed and warm me delivered instead a bolted sharp light down my powerful limbs.
Penetrating deep into the ground, even my foundations are withered.
A skeleton, bare and shaken even by soft breezes
Alone in my field I stand.
Not companiable and leafy as before whispering my story with others of my kind,
Now I am gaunt, twisted an apology for a tree.
But in winter sun I am still regal and valued by her artistic lens
When I pose against the faithless blue a different statement than meant."
Written by Jill Johnson (©)