Standing tall, strong, immovable
a sentry outside my window
a guardian, sentinel, marquis
a trustee over my good fortune.
What history have you seen?
Fifty years old, and fifty more
to grow, and witness, and perceive
what we cannot. What mysteries
are cast or hidden in yon shadows?
What key do I need to free the truth
from your many limbs, your innumerable
branches, your vibrantly green leaves?
You stand carefree on the precipice of time,
coyly protecting your treasures and truth
from prying eyes and destructive hands.
Your ivy on the ground is an extension of your being
reigning over the countryside like infantry
ghostly soldiers of the leafy variety
overwhelming my psyche and my spirit
with your sagely, blithe countenance.
Botany has always been my passion, my creed.