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.