In a rolling meadow stands a solitary tree,
A mighty noble oak, it would seem.
Its facade broad and strong,
Yet marked by demise, long writ across its pale, brittle carcass.
Withered branches contort skyward, as if pleading for another day.
How cruel the fate, to stand frozen in a plea.
A once vibrant life, now a stark harbinger of the inevitable.
Imprisoned in time like the statues of Pompeii,
Cursed to stand like a rooted memory,
God’s own sculpted memento mori,
Longing to become the wind.
Tag: trees
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Deadwood
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