Sta.sh
What is left to salvage
of the tree when its branches
stiffen like stone
and bear no leaves?
Can we still call it a tree
when it can't provide shade
for the wandering dog
or a house for the nesting lark?
Is there any hope left
for a stomp with roots
poking out of the ground,
cutting anyone who comes close?
Does it change anything
to know that it used to bloom
silky soft white flowers
that resembled snow on the grass,
when now not even the dazed
drunk, fresh from his folly,
would seek the tree for shelter?
Do you still expect
buds and leaves to burst out
from its scrawny limbs,
when even the termites
have grown bored of it?
If you remember
a tree with glossy white petals,
with long, outstretched arms,
with a picnic by the trunk,
then your memory
will live and grow,
but the tree will not.
It is dead,
and it doesn't need your
sentiments.
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