King Tree

The tree clawed through the granite bloodstream.
He ripped and tore to be above all others—
became king.
King of stone barren precipice,
Majestic but alone.
He now knows why wolves howl so long.
His skeletal fingers crackle up the night sky,
Fragment stratosphere, and section stars.
But they cannot reach.
For here ambition must remain dream.
Nothing.
And nothing can blot out
The strewn map of convoluted cracks
Through which iron roots traveled to create the leering white face.
The moon remains a mirror
Of sunbeam past-
Beauty and joy into somber silver,
Glittering coldly over dark waters.
Listen to the gentle waves
Deliver rigid truths—
Whitebleached driftwood
To crash against the stones and reflect the light
Of the moon.