Wooden Maturity

Autumn, poignant season
Trees, once full and lush
Letting their vibrant colors slip away in a death rattle
Some are already stark silhouettes in the November sky
Naked in the rain that washes away
Deserted bird nests and empty insect casings

Calmly, the trees stand alone together
Facing the harshness that lies ahead
Only their rough bark protects them
A family of experienced cynics

Acorns are buried beneath the leaves
In the earth's somber, secret womb
At some mysterious hour, they will rise up
Pushing their heads through the folds of soft earth
Crowning, then craning their young necks
To feel the warmth of the sun on their new, unfolding leaves

For ages, they will stand in the shadows of their mothers
Receiving second-hand drops of rain
And only the light that shines through
But, the earth is softly tilled with roots that have gone before

A sapling has few hopes of ever viewing life unshaded
Meddling men might chop away the mother
And transplant the sapling and its root ball
Or, the young tree might finally surpass the matriarch
Growing taller and stronger, rising above her
And stretching out its limbs
To grasp the world for itself