She was in a way

Akin to the oak she rest upon

Lending it’s shaded branch

Unwavering, Cradling

the age she wore on her hands

The inescapable matter of age

Growing venations

To decorate her skin

To trace where her endings begin

Neither perfect nor flawed

To remind her time hadn’t forgot

And she does not protest

As the aging tree does not fight

For the looting of her youth

Could never reach inside

Where all that matters hides