The hollow tree still bears fruit,
Through the rain and storm and sun.
See the warped branches dull then shine,
Hanging low to feel where its roots begun.
The hollow tree still stands through days of old,
Wearing leaves into small drops of life,
That swing soft green and red in the wind,
Rustling through the trunk like a sharpening knife.
Through ages of scorn and watchful deliberation,
The hollow tree fades into a stoic nothing;
Home to the vine leaves and miracle fruit,
To be plucked once again of its bashful blushing.
Split down the middle during one such storm,
The hollow tree dances round the air.
Twisting loosely then lightly over what once was,
While the fruit swings gaily all green and fair.
From a seed to sprout, to a tree tall and stout,
The hollow tree still bears fruit with a dying heart,
Beating only for the promise of colour once again,
While from its fellow vital trees stands apart.
I have been writing since very young but have grown up discarding projects early on or mid-way through something I once would place all my hopes on. I have since found comfort and safety in writing poetry and short fiction, redefining the way I see and interact with the world.