Tree

This was my first poem to be published.

"Tree"

Her buds begin to bloom,
With the rising of a new sun,
The dying leaves have blown away,
Her Spring has now begun,
Her roots have been embedded in my soil,
Where her trunk had first sprout,
But as her branches spread,
She grows farther out,
Forgetting her roots are what hold her,
Tied down to ground.

The beauty of her Oak,
Astonishes all who come near,
Left speechless by her beauty,
Her golden leaves flow like hair,
But through the armored bark I can see,
The truth of her tree,
Her Oak is no Oak,
But a Willow weeping sadly.

(c)2006 Joe Ruggiero