A Stationary Friend

These rough, crooked giants are weeping soft green tears,

Their limbs embedded in century old brick.

Unruffled tufts of down chirp piteously from their roosts

Built between craggy fingertips.

I place my hand onto his rough skin,

Perhaps hoping for a heartbeat

Or any sign of camaraderie.

But the bark remains chilled and unyielding

As he mourns Winter's passing.

Nevertheless, I wrap my arms around him.

Perhaps he can listen to my hopeless sentiments

And piteous ramblings.

Perhaps he won't evade me like all the others.