I think so deeply into the forest
That I never see the trees:
For ash—and weeping willows stand
Stripped of their fullness and flowing leaves.

They are barren of all their former glory,
Bereft of all but a chilling impression.
Their sadness and illness, so grey, tell a story,
The image of a cold world’s resulting depression.

They long for death but are chained to dormancy,
Not certain how they shall awake from half-rest,
Afraid to encounter awakening’s reality,
Yet they have no choice as the wood’s prized guests.

Never more deep shall they sleep.
They began—but shall not end.
Whether tragedy or luxury,
The future shall eternity defend.

The seed
Was planted
Long ago;
Full autumn blazing,
Leaves that blow,
And fall,
And again…
They grow.