Quansoo Forest
Spiraled, twisted, screwed and swirled,
Knobbed and gnarled, hunched and burled,
Oaken shapes grotesquely curled,
Ever-howling wind has whirled.
From the stump and toward the sky,
Aged sprouts for sunlight vie,
Grapplings limbs are arching high,
Arms of wooden octopi.
Briny gale the ocean blows,