I am a tree standing in the middle of nowhere,
Facing the sun, the moon, the stars, and the air.
The day before yesterday, I remember it was spring—
I was swaddled in pastels and sweet scents,
Stories to tell and songs to sing.
Yesterday was the prime of summer:
I gleamed green beneath a cerulean sky,
Still filled with stories, still singing high.
Today, my stories are fewer, and my songs are sung.
The birds feast sweetly on fruit I’ve borne,
And one by one, my days pass on.
My leaves dance, twirl, and drift to the ground,
Carefree in their swirling, spiralling sound.
The wind brushes past and whispers,
“You are beautiful in those reds and golds.”
Does he know that a flame burns the brightest
Just before it dies cold?
Tomorrow will be winter, and I will stand bare—
No more stories, my songs frozen in air.
Yet here I stay, in quiet grace,
Listening to all the wind has to say,
Watching the days grow short and slow,
Curling my toes beneath the snow,
Waiting for a robin to perch on my bough.