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..”