Withering

Withering

The tree that shielded us at twilight
where you first said "How much I love you"
has thin skin that has grayed and faded
and deep lines which go inward and through.

The weeds grew and long grass took over,
and swallowed many yards of clear space,
leaving the tree to age, to smother
without enough food or sun for grace.

The strong supple limbs that held up
our daughter's swings so tall, so sure
now droop and sag, almost touching ground
no longer can it abide, endure.

The squirrels no longer run there
to save their little nuts and grains.
Even they seem to know this ancient tree
is suffering too many old pains.

It's not stable; it's not steady and
blowing storms it can barely weather.
It's joined the long line of dead wood,
it's bark now light as a feather.

I see and understand it all,
how father time makes us atone.
After all, I'm rather old myself now
with frail skin and lines of my own.

I don't question God's righteous judgement.
I understand His ultimate plan.
But Lord I'll never understand
why so soon I had to lose my man.

Without him, there is not much left
to fight despair, no more chances.
The winds threaten to sweep me away.
He's not here to trim the branches.

Without his warmth, I bear no fruit
my heart and body have grown old.
The chest pains constantly remind me
that I, too, shall wither, grow cold.

There's nothing sadder that I can see
than an old, lonely withered tree.