My tree sleeps with the fishes,
Or so it would seem.
My tree sleeps under the bushes,
But it does not dream.
Two weeks ago, it all fell down.
It’s been dead for a long time, but hung around.
A home for the birds and a bug’s delight.
My dead tree hung on for dear life.
Now it has tumbled down to the ground,
Falling to pieces and scattered around.
The termites love her and earthworms too.
She’s falling to pieces, fallen from view.
Some of her to be burned; some to be thrown,
Over the fence into the unknown.
I planted her, pruned her, till full grown.
She grew no fruit, and now she’s gone.
I will miss her and the mockingbird’s song.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. H