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,
Doubling o’er the oak which grows
Stunted, bent in tortured throes,
Wooden rings record the pose.
— Adam R. Moore