Old trees stood nervously, swaying as one
arboreal chamber with walls of dismay.
Tarnished and yellowed, archaic and shunned,
limbs hanging tired in decrepit decay.
Bark fell off mangy and scabbed with disease,
rough like their voices, still churning out sneers.
Saplings and creepers, young scandalous trees,
sarcasm, ridicule, showing no fear.
Then all the trees to the bramble in scorn,
smiling and smirking, “You come be our king!”
Barbs, spurs, tines, points, prongs, spikes, prickles and thorns,
each red with tenderness after the sting.
Woven, suspended, intending no harm,
Thornbush fell wordless and stretched out his arms.
