© Steve E. Anderson
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.