Each Old Snag

the old snag is weathered to remember
lost seasons of green, fierce storms of winter,
how woodpeckers pecked, how the squirrels played,
how it became sculpture in shades of gray

eloquent of what it has no way to say,
motionless it stops passersby, moves them,
they take in ravage it records, how time 
makes beauty as it racks and it ruins.

bumps, hollows, sharp fingers pointed at sky,
bark that’s fallen away, chocolate shades
of rot against the gray, not quite so high
as once it was, still rooted to the earth

each old snag has its own pace of decay,
but when it’s gone a new snag is begun