Dead wood of the damson.
No longer will white petals fall
to soften where I tread,
nor fruit to stain the garden path
in clots of purplish red.
Sawdust scatters to the wind
while kindling covers ground.
Logs are stacked against a wall
and death lurks all around.
I counted rings that spoke to me
of seasons long departed.
The parting of this lovely tree
has left me broken hearted.
Some may say, it was just a tree,
but oh, the joy it brought to me.
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