The Ancients

We look over the new green. Delicate pale bulbs germinating within the dirt need assurance. And that what we are, a grandfather's wink. Something storied and rooted towering over Gregorian calendars is set about you. We slow the wings of the swooping fowl and filter the ire of the sun. All for the pleasure of your sprout. If the gazing herd becomes too veracious helping themselves to that which has yet begun, we will dangle poison berries. Their still bodies will send a message to all appetites that operate with impunity. We have hung outlaws from our strongest arms, nested scaling rodent, and shielded the lurid exploits of sexual passion. Splay your petals and we will applaud the splashes of color. Carpenter bees will pass you this season, but make note of your promise. Do not fear their sting. Neither cower at the sound of their low buzz. They are not the devouring swarm of your trepidation. Cicada are boisterous showing little in the way of wit. Our leaves are a plush decoy for them. The only danger we can not circumvent is the hubris of romantic love. Decadence is impervious to our defenses. They will rip you up in bunches or pluck you as singlets. If you are not drowned in a vase, you will be fasten to the wrist or ostentatious hairdo of some culler's beloved. The organs of extasy will return in form after the sickle has performed it's wickedness. We will watch over you with great care. Imposing height and breadth eats up the horizon as far as the eye can register. Our huddle is darkness hosting the secrets of honey suckles. Ever reaching up to heaven, winding, and spreading. There is no comeliness in our posture. A tribe of hunches and contortionists are we. Very old and patient. Let God spin you masterfully, and we will make the shade.