the sapling stands to attention
proud of its arrow head
too weak to hold a leaf
its outline sharp and dead
not wounded yet by any saw
no stumps upon its trunk
not knowing any beak or claw
it braves a frigid wind..
puddles reflect an elder's
sickly limbs, grasping onto yellow leaves
spring's infants lost by winter's thieves..
their beauty fades so slowly
from green to gold, to brown
deaths that delight the passerby
who know they too will one day die
copyright L. Ivison 2025
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