Saw a gnarly tree at the beach, covered in vines and roots, and thought to myself, well, there's a sight to capture in some writing. So, the poem.
Nervous tendrils climbing,
veining this body of bark.
The soil wrestles immobily
for the worms it construes have left it,
forlorn, an empty nest before
this lichen-denizened totem.
Its belly and its bosom, though,
still writhe with undeparted kin.
digesting humic mouthfuls,
while the shore, a road of foot-shaped scars,
applauds the tree's attire
with salt and acrophobic clouds.