All alone, you are standing proud,
a single beautiful white cloud.
Bedecked in your bridal glory,
you are first to tell your story
of how life goes on in your crowd.
Meanwhile all around you stand stark
other trees, barren, bare-branched, dark,
save for small leaflets of lime green
just emerging, that can be seen
on the twisted contorted bark.
Spring’s emerging from Winter freeze.
Settled at the base of those trees,
in a drifting, shifting pillow,
are catkins shed by a willow
and your confetti blown by breeze.
Will your flowers turn to berries?
Will they form sweet, ruby cherries?
Will they survive April rainfall?
Will birds come your young buds to steal?
Will they have gone with the fairies?
When I come back here in the Fall
will there be any sign at all
of your former bridal glory?
Or will you show me the story
of your sad despondent downfall ?
Will you call out again to me
with pride, or will there simply be
a lonely little tree that grieves,
shedding her dying rustic leaves,
with a sad unfinished story?