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 |  A naturist's perspective of life and death akin to decay of the fallen tree. |
Ragged log near wounded tree, sogged by time, forgotten amid your rising kin, you serve no purpose. Or, so it seems on the surface. Wasting with crumbled innards and a thin papery husk, meld with the soiled earth that bore you. Rear the unforgiving under your moss blanket, calm like the maggots nestled in your flesh. Die; I’ll wait. Die and cede, bleed ugly age into beauteous truth, your wisdom, so they won’t suffer like you did, like you do. Your bones they harvest. The white sheet lets no one remember you were here, yet the howls of November sing your departed song. Now I'm cold like you. Winner of the September, 2009 Shining Star award from Circle of Sisters and "Rising Stars Shining Brighter"  ![Merit Badge in Nature
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2009 Quill Award for Best Nature for [Link To Item #1599485] ; see [Link To Item #1376303] for more information](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Nature-1125.gif) This poem is part of a collection available to ebook readers at the link below:
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