Waves etched into the fermenting piece,

Time’s gentle carving will never cease.

The rings of the tree hold stories untold,

Of secrets kept and memories old.

An entire lifetime, displayed in inches,

generations born, without flinches,

A long story to tell, with parts,

Far too sacred to dispel.

The bark is a shield for what lies within,

A record of loss, of love, and of sin.

Each ring a whisper, and each knot a cry,

Of years that passed and dreams that died.

It will hold so many bodies,

Little girls playing in branches, vision spotty,

And men, once highly strung,

Now necks bent, bodies hung.

Not carved in stone, but not in vain,

The tree remembers joy and pain,

They try, carving the secrets out,

But they have grown deaf, to natures cries, and shouts.