Like a boat through the mist,
its branches pierce the morning haze;
arthritic digits gently sunkissed,
reaching for the listless day.

The faintest whisper of leaves,
budding through the thinnest bark,
eager to live free, to breathe,
but too soon… too soon to start.

The veil of greedy clouds retreat,
to a sky of hope and crystal blue thrones,
leaving only dew at their feet,
to show that the world was ever known.

The wolfish spring pounces on the prey revealed,
That centuries old sentry alone in a field.