The Old Man Of The Lake Poem by Ima Ryma

Crater Lake is clear, deep and blue.
I've called it home since don't know when.
Thirty foot tall tree stump, I do
Be bobbing waters all again.
Boaters keep an eye out for me,
Tourists do want to check me out.
Guess I am a celebrity.
I am kind of unique, no doubt.
Prob'ly a hemlock, I am told.
Most of me underwater stays,
Kept preserved by the icy cold.
Above, four feet bleached white I raise.

Floating with currents give and take,
I'm called the Old Man of the Lake.