She is a lovely tree.
Her trunk is cracked and hollow.
Her branches are knobby and thin.
And her limbs are scarred with deep rope burns—
A tattoo of the past.
The nectar that once flowed from her heart
Has now carved down her wrinkled body,
And hardened into golden tears.
She leans to one side, bending painfully.
Her bare branches sweep the ground
With bony fingers, as if to console
The sodden heap
That is nestled against the bosom of her trunk.
She is left forever grieving
Forever holding vigil
For the poor soul whose weight she bore
As he took his final breath
In his final moment of life.
She watched the spark of light
As it dimmed in his eyes
And heard the rattle of death
As it wheezed in his throat.
Poor soul, poor soul
She cried
To the beady eyed raven
Who had come to settle
Upon her naked branches.
She is a lovely tree.