Old Growth

The past falls away
Like stricken branches
Of mighty, ancient trees;
Slowly dying over time
Until no growth remains.

Even still it stays in place,
The fruitless arm
Too frequently used
By convenient visitors
Hiding from runaway storms.

Only when death is complete,
Nothing living holding on,
Does the stubborn, hardened
Proof of past existence
Succumb to anonimity and fall away.