The Harvest Poem by Holmes Jim

A grand old maple stands its' ground,
Just beyond our quiet town,
Dressed in colours of the autumn tone,
Gust of wind will make it moan,

A hundred years has left its mark,
Carving scars deep in aging bark,
Weather worn from endless days,
Twisted branches begin to sway,

A time will come for it to pass,
And leave behind its' treasured mass,
A treasured heirloom shall come to be,
From lumber culled from this fallen tree.