© Steve E. Anderson
Listen to the Poem
Bleached white bones of an old dead tree,
Still clawing at the sky,
Still mocking death, still trying to be.
The pale thin skin of a tired old man,
Still fighting off the grave,
Still trying to live, still trying to stand.
Bones and Skin; the tree and the man,
Both of them, and all of us,
Still clinging to life, still gripping its hand.