The Guardian

The twigs never snapped.
The smog replaced the dew.
And I no longer awoke,
to the sound of the birds.

I am no longer a scratching stick,
Who would lend an arm to all,
Or a nest for a bird, 
A burrow for a fox.
Not a lodge or sustenance,
Not even a tree.

I am a treehouse,
With the graves of my ancestors,
discard upon my arms.
I’m a dolls house,
Or a pigeon nest.

As each rotation of the globe passes by,
No matter how ignorant I was,
Or how feeble I grow,
I remain the guardian.
The Guardian of the treehouse.