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.