Timbered

Round and round they go with a ribbon and garlanded flowers in hand. The bark won't unravel, the tree spells solidness—we grand, oaken, elmed selves of the ancients. Our pith is clean. There's no pining away for tomorrow, we are in current respiration, we move with the wind. Singular, we are stunning. In horde, we are dense, differing dream. The autumnal flashiness these days is drought-determined. We barely go beyond the red. Our hollows are never vacant. We live to board; we take the ax. Marbled inside the original stem. We were born we don't know when.