The old grey rock on the slope of hill,
tall like an ocean tide,
putting a cool blanket of shade,
over the green sapling growing beside.

Poor wrinkles on the old grey skin,
is tough like a lead sheet
in protecting the young green limbs
from the sparks of the sun's seat.

But the young stem silently screams,
with pale leaves bent like an eagle's beak;
untouched by the light of spring and
winds from the mountains peak.

Soft veins are turning limpid like glass and
roots are opaque as a gravestone,
embraced twixt repulsive grass blades that
count unwanted obligations sworn.

A pink bud at the tip of stem,
is closed like a book not read,
living solely on crystal raindrops
that fall as elixir on the dead.

Sap from the shoot shall dry ere long,
and breezes shall be cold as the north pole,
when the old grey rock ( with true care)
shall possess warm teardrops to console.