My slender boughs are bowed
by the great weight of my grief,
and these are not leaves
cascading to soil, but tears of teal.
I am shaken by a sorrowful breeze,
my sap taken by the fading light,
dried out and hollowed, a rasp of parched bark.
Creaking and weeping
with the weight of my mythology
as cold takes hold, scoring its mark on bark,
rippling and stippling my leaves,
a shivering shroud of green settling over me.
Yet eternity rings coil at my core, ensure
tiers of teardrop leaves will glisten with life again,
drooping and dripping in a shimmering baptism of rain.