The Leaning Tree

Leaning against a tide of updraft
holding up to currents like a life raft
its weight carried by cuneate recreation
a cultrate in its multichromatic culmination
leaves once green now cupreous and crocolytic
the late season had taken hold like a paralytic
its debris was culled with rakes in culmination
revealing not why its patterns lacked sedition
against arboristicly high degrees of precedent
all the let go of ways were treed by rotting sediment
a cubby-hole of confidence was not to be found
anywhere among its crooked cross-treed crown
up to which heights no one would dare climb
among such slippery slopes on a trunk so wide
lacking support on which to cling or grasp
there never would be a need to raze or rasp
to give it purpose in all its vermillion dissolution
the shade from which was filled with no solution
to avoid the looming danger hanging precariously
above that would never be recieved with any real love
in a burly display of gravitational deciet it leaned
into chafing winds from which to learn not glean
cross-cut along its branching ways its only means
were all the broken parts that were never to convene
covered in a chrinoline cast of up-grown decisions
built over years of up-thrusts and techtonic collisions
underneath which artless creatures scurried along
trying to gather shade even as its immense shadow grew long
so carelessly how its leaves were trampled in haste
and never again would its growth pattern be chaste
for in all it leaned into would it hardly give way
even among such turbulent storms of dismay...