The Old Tree - Poetry

The old tree,
Broken and dying,
In the hot desert,
Stranded right in the middle.

Harsh weather,
Weathered down the tree,
To nothing,
But a piece of hollow wood.

Until,
Rain came,
As a relief,
By the grey pigeon.

Stumbled on a treasure,
That ripped out a smile,
On the hunter,
For spending years in gloom.

A ray of hope,
Under all that clouds,
With a chance of vegetation,
Coming back to life.

A belief,
Only deep in the heart of,
But one,
That the clouds are going to part.

Hope that river flows straight,
Right into the alley,
One that deserves it,
One that needs it,
All that water.

Without crushing,
Blowing air to kindle it,
Into a lasting fire,
The hunter set upon a voyage,
One that has no destination,
Yet hopefully,
Filled with hope.

Photo by Michal Zych on Unsplash