Venerability Poem by David C Probst

My petals, torn and rusty,
They squeak in agony
When nudged by careless birds,
My only visitors.

The lightest breeze, the fiercest storm -
They move me not.
Heat and hail have bleached my bloom
And seasonal strokes leave me untouched.

My strength has vanished with the people.
With broken arms, a weathered shaft,
I have become a monument,
A witness to some long-gone glory.

Across the field I watch them whirl
Relentlessly, unfailingly,
And listen to their self-complacent,
Heedless hum and purr.

Their impeccable triple spikes
Mince and mix the air,
While I, their squalid ancestor,
Catch cold in want of motion.

And yet, despite my withered force,
Despite my wrinkled shape and face,
I will remain and not be moved,
For lack of funds and interest.