First of all, I am by no means a poet but as I was walking my dogs on a recent morning, I came across this tree and although I've seen it countless times before, I had to stop and really admire it and doing so prompted the following thoughts.

I stand in awe of this ragged old tree. 
As I step closer, I press my right hand against the rough bark.
Tilting my head back, I try in vain to look up into the distant crown.
As my eyes travel upward, the gashes of recent trauma.

Evidence of a terrific windstorm is everywhere.
This tree, for all of its apparent size and strength, was not immune.
Not one but two of the massive limbs from its trunk shorn off.
For a moment, I imagine the sound of wrenching wood.

I consider its age.
Will I be around when the rest comes down?
Will anyone remember how tall, how strong it once stood?
Or will it just disappear, like so many others before it in this very spot?

I imagine this future. 
Its memory faded back into the soil.
Its remains feeding life with its death.