Funeral For a Friend

The day is sad and cold. The white pine at the forest's clearing pours sap, like tears From the many meaningless gashes of the hatchet's blade. A rogue shoelace dangles from a high branch. These things are acquired from the busy-ness of Summer. The time has yet come to bid farewell, As the old tree clings to the last tendrils of its ever growing, ever green life. The arborist reports, this will be my friend's last day in this life. A few of its children have survived long enough To now gather at the clearing's edge in solemn respect. The nearby meadow grows more yellow in mourning Of what is yet to come. Even the stubborn sky turns gray And weeps for these hours of departure. The matted ground beneath collects the fallen foliage Like flowers on an open grave. And I, I can only offer a few respectful words: An eulogy paled by comparison And inadequate to capture The sweet life this old friendship has borrowed from this forest.