Swaying, the tree to the wind.

Refusing to bend….

Damn the rain. Snow. Elements.

Meant to be more-a sign, show.

Here. Present. No peasant.

This time. Not vanished.

Banish creeping, crawling echoes of fears.

Place them in leaves that fall every year,

fight, sprout anew.

Through rust colors, green.



Submitted as part of One Stop Poetry’s One Shot Wednesday