B

We are but trees,
They are of us,
We are of them.

A sprout,
A tendril,
A root,
All from a seed,
A kernel of life

Our Springs,
Our Falls,
Our Winter snows,
Our Summer rains.

Our moonless nights,
Our stars,
Our Sun...

Of age
and brittleness,
pruned
by Nature:
ice and storm.
We break
and fall
and fester and rot.

But...
Do they feel our love,
Can they feel our hearts?
What of sadness,
Lonely tears...
Do they know?...
The cost of joy
Is pain.



-bob-