[Insert Whimsically Deep Title Here]

Looking out the porthole, I turn the desk out the window
Outside a small forest of elder trees ready for a family portrait
Their homely branches look at me thru this lens with faces smiling
The ents have long gone- left for more silent wilderness
It is silent here; the trees still creak but no longer whisper
Each an island to be sailed around without recollection

The sun glares at them as they squint to keep their eyes open
To keep their eyes level with mine and my camera
Beneath them lies shade in the grass but no smaller trees to join him
Only an iron trunk remains below the outstretched arms of his brothers,
Shining a light from the top, a lighthouse for all the sailors to see
A guide for all who follow the ents' path, a path most taken

The mast is my tripod, it bows to the happy family
Arms on shoulders, the trees lean in but a brushstroke of red blocks my eyes
The brush is a flag on the mast, its sails unfurling
The flag is stained with blood, the trees know it too well
I hear the rustling of hate behind me, hate for the crimson banner
The rustling wants to bring it down the flag adorned with our blood,
but I know the truth- The banner is all of us