There is only the tree.

There is only the tree.

It stands eternally

It waits patiently

Never flinching

Bar the occasional dip

Of recognition

Before a strong wind

Does it see me

Where we meet

The coming together

Do we lean

Is there mutuality

There is a nonchalance

About my posture

That I barely feel

Is it the tree

What does it add to my disposition

Other than by its very presence

The power of its resistance

The weathering

Of eons

An ageless persistence

I do not possess.

Its many scars and blemishes

Add character

Mine add nothing

But the gravity of age.

There is nothing else like it

Its cracks and crannies

Are as defining

As they are unique

I would recognise them anywhere

Even in a forest

With an assemblage

Of similarity.

On close inspection,

Even there,

Every one is different