hang

iron fence, open gate
seems enough barrier to suggest
something special is kept within,
but whether that be the bones--
dug up by roots, dangling
precariously in the ground--
or the tree itself
has yet to be decided

for the years seem to take these bodies
(certainly the souls)
and smooth their names from stone,
while all that centuries give to this tree
is more time to grow.

as the sun sets and shows
just how dramatic a shade it can cast,
I am left to wonder
if the years will find this gate still open,
or show nothing
as metal is warped and wound by fleshy trunk,
swallowed
just as all the starry nights
these branches have seen;
all the clouds this crown has cupped.

--
Prompt is title in that it inspired one image, and helped me found the picture which this actually ended up being about.