Bending like the sway of a sorrowful bough
Who graces the lone tree atop a hill
Where once there was a grove
Having seen the forest fall
To the bite of a hungry ax
I am swaying like that tree
Who shivers nakedly in the night
With no foliage to ward away the cold
Her green crown of leaves fallen
To wither and rustle in the grass
Moaning like the barren wind
That no longer sings songs of Aspen
Nor carries a plum blossom bouquet
O’er fields of daisies and red clover carpets
To the feet of an emerald mountain maid
I am weeping like the mourning rain
Glistening like diamonds in the lifeless waste
As I hold fast to wayward prisms of light
Painting the earth bereft of adornment
With glistening blossoms like fallen stars
My pen scurries about the page like a busy squirrel
Gathering nuts of wisdom and the memories of trees
Buried in layers of loam scented sonnet
It makes a music of birdsong, replacing the hush
And a breath of life stirs amid the tombs of earth
Dedicated to the beautiful grove of trees, that no longer stands atop the hill. May they rest in peace.
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1.a lament for the dead, esp. one forming part of a funeral rite.