The trunk has grown much sturdier than ages
Its clenched-up roots meander long and wide
Throughout the world beneath, forgotten pages
With soundfull ruffles, ripples hard to hide.

The bark’s deep wrinkles ring around, a wrapping
To have and hold for winter’s coming rush,
Even the bulges, swellings, standstill warping
Are perfect aids in times of lashful crush.

The falling leaves patch up the seeping hollow
With layers many, sheets of crumbled lops
Lining the underground with paths; they follow
A rugged mountain, weeping thickest drops.