The cracks in your trunk chunk together a sort of pattern,
Slivers, bits, and little segments.
Brown-sap, Green-moss and dinky faces
Are seen in the brief slits.
It’s like a mystery.
Perhaps you do not perceive anything at all,
Simply protection, or type of skin-like thing.
One hundred years now you have grown
Seen the days pass by again.
Yet I see nothing.
Traipsing all over the world with nowhere set in dirt
I do not sit peaceful to grow
But move all about frantic up and down
In order to feel of use and have
A purpose, in this odd giant world.