Last April I stood before
the old maple tree.
Alone in that field
among golden rushes
nipping at my legs.
Beholding the failing Atlas
whose limbs once upheld my world.
Watched it die.
Leaves fluttered,
stories lost in the breeze.
Shades of molten wax
littering detritus, a
meal for the worms,
vitality spent.
Wind whistled through
barren branches.
I listened,
observed,
and wept,
and told no one I was there.
Except for you.
Now your turn.
Tell me about your tree.
Please?
