The Cedar Tree in the corner above the drain

 | Contemplation on memories|a Haibun

You climb above the nearby lines of now common electricity. Lines that mark your profile, mar the portrait of your unhibited majesty. Still you stand as you stood before these lines of power were raised. You stand as you stood you cedar brave when around you cattle grazed. And boys played, cutting skin on barbed wire that wrote scars where the red paint it spilled dried up. Cut your ten, you've hardly been shaken when hurricane throw rain and breeze, making rivulets and streams, a new spring twould seem forms filling the drain by your feet. And again boys come to play in the waters that run till it dries up and they leave you. Excitement done. The cars slow down in the potholes that gape in awe at your longevity finding themselves short-lived and driven by the political winds compared to your enduring majesty. To the houses you overlook though their occupants change you remain the same. Your skin wears splotches white as if you're sick to death. But sick you're not though many of your fellows to the woodsman's axe have dropped, dead. You hold vigils night and day with avian musicians who play without pay. You do give them room and board. You have no eyes, no hands with which to work, and there are no treasures you hoard. They think you blind, dumb and deaf as you stand guard 💂‍♂️ waiting, not wilting, faithful till your change comes.

The things you have seen

With headdress orange and green

Uncut lumber still.