VISITORS
I am bent with age, just like the old tree on the hill
my hands are gnarled and spotted
like the curled bark and tangled roots
I have less hair and fewer teeth
and the old tree's branches are bare bones
her sap has thickened and stilled
my blood is heavy and moves slowly
through my clotted veins
my bones creak as I slowly lower myself
to sit beneath her empty canopy
Her branches rub and sigh in the soft wind
gently whispering to me, our time is almost up
after all, we are only visitors
who have outstayed our welcome
Janice Kuykendall
April 2, 2012
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