This Tree

There it’s something appealing,
About this tree,
Though I don’t know what.

Something in its angles,
Leaning back in revulsion,
Away from the road.

Away from the place where,
The trunk forked early in its life.
Where its conjoined twin
Was removed at the base,
So as not to impede traffic.

Bone like arms,
Reach mournfully upward.
Stripped of leaves,
For the winter months.
Leaving only scraps of Spanish moss,
Clinging to its grey nakedness.

Dried seed pod husks
Hanging from long fingers,
Like brown leprous flesh.

I saw it today
Possessing a new beauty,
Unseen when in full bloom.