The king tree blossoms over
his deep rough scars
and under eternity –
Beauty that will collapse slowly
at the hand of gravity
and the endless blues of god.
Fruit to bear and tumble down
to rot, a mess that feeds the mother –
His offerings will leave him bare
and gray.
But he will never stop,
even with rushing river below
that licks his roots patiently,
loving,
a constant chime of the inevitable.
The king tree continues to bear his fruit.
He drops in symphony,
bright red-orange hue,
delicately to death.
Continue on and pay no mind to the river –
the river always wins.
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