Thousands of branches; mossy and still

They create a maze with no way out.

But light still shines through the cracks

as if it were honey leaking from a pot.

Old and wrinkled; it stands alone.

Grasping each last leaf, like a mother not wanting her child to leave.

Melancholy blankets each branch and leaf,

For it is fading into a forgotten piece of history.

It might be a tree, but its agony is real.

A breeze flows through the air.

Chills spiraling down the trunk

Fall is here and winter is near.

Soon a layer of snow will rest upon the branches.

Each leaf has now vacated the tree.

But even in the bitter cold, it will stand

Wishing it served a certain purpose.

It wants to be valued, but it feels useless.

It might be a tree, but to me its much more.