The Death of a Tree

By Anatolia T. Kozinski

When I saw the frost consume the windows

When I heard the wind wail and moan

When I felt the wind like new rusting turn cold

I thought it best to walk to my tree

To see if it upright still it stood, in its age so old

Its leaves drifted down, down to a hard, dry ground

Its branched dropped with a crack, others clinging were frail

Its bark dry and crumbled, fell with a hollow sound

As blackened as blackened snow at the last of winter

But there is no summer in its wake, no waking does it know