The silence of the morning floods the air.
Within the stillness one tree stands alone
apart from all the rest, majestic, fair.
Most rare her beauty is and yet, her cone
of leafy green is fading, and she moans.
Her spirit seeks a wonder to unfold,
where seasons will not turn her heart to stone,
and rivers flow and never freeze in cold.
The summer wind breathes ‘round her trunks so bare,
where angels playing on the clouds have flown.
She whispers to the wind, “Oh won’t thou care
to take my seeds, together as our own
create new trees like me.” Her voice intones.
To propagate her kind, and not grow old
is her desire and to her bosom lone,
her branches out stretch for the wind to hold.
The wind appeases her, it cannot bear
to see her grieving, all her essence groan.
Her seeds it gathers like they’re jewels rare
to scatter them o’er woods, as to atone
for leaving her to face an empty zone.
And some seeds fall ‘mongst leaves with hues of gold,
while those which drop on rocks are picked by drones,
but only one doth mother earth enfold.
The setting sun won’t see the tree bemoan
her dying with the dark, but now behold
her reincarnate seed, that time will hone
the tree to life; and so this tale is told.