When a tree dies

The wayward souls
lose their shade.

Their shade is no more,
Neither is the cold whistling of the wind
Which moves the leaves
A lullaby to listening ears

Listening ears still long for it
The rustling leaves, chirping birds,
The support to lay their back on
All gone when a tree dies

When a tree dies

His son takes up the role.
He’s not supposed to cry,
Or mourn, or show weakness.

He becomes the shade,
The support, the rustling of leaves
He becomes what his father was

When the tree dies
The seed is seed no more
He has to grow
No matter if he’s ready or not.

Until the next tree dies.

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