Look at this tree,
Beautiful and serene,
Perfect, but for the way
It’s bent to serve me
Crimson leaves so ready
To take in this moment
Weathered by the oncoming storm..
Our being here obscures its majesty
Our attempt to capture it is a disservice
These words are but a fool’s claim on glory
For a tree so perfectly defiant
Stood, in stark contrast
To storms ever encroaching..
Imagine if we were to remove ourselves from it:
Were it allowed to stand for itself,
It would stand. Were it allowed
To speak for itself, it would speak.
Were it allowed to sing its glory,
It would sing, but as it stands
It falls to me, where I tarry with enormity
Braying “Oh, but a tree, but a tree..”