My Poet Tree

What was a joy,
'twas once a toy,
a clever tool used for amusement;

was but a lark,
but then the bark,
began falling on the pavement.

Vulnerable outside,
gave a glimpse inside,
what was a bag of tricks;

other methods used,
unbalanced, and confused;
now I've much more wax than wicks.

At times amazed,
sometimes unfazed,
tree's branches bend, and relax;

the roots are deep,
but the grades more steep,
the leaves on the ground hide the tracks.

Gravity betrays,
cognitive thought decays,
branches baring from the breeze;

exposing birds,
who'll take off like words,
both, migrating towards more degrees.

That's not to say,
I owned not my "day",
many seasons yielded, plump;

my thoughts are tethered,
forever weathered,
my name carved faintly on the stump.