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.