At the edge of the forest lies

Nothing more than a single sprout

With leaves of few on brink of expiration,

Resting on fragile stalks of wood ascending.

What were once billows,

And staunch limbs,

Now feeble and marred,

All that’s left.

 

At the edge of the forest,

This topiary settles on weak and damaged roots,

Spanning to others within reach,

Bringing them down as it cascades

Into the depths of leaves below.

There is no hope left

For this tree.

 

But not for the others,

They overcome and grow,

Taller and stronger

Than what they once were,

Rebuilding their limbs,

Their billows and stalks,

Feeding through their roots,

And reaching toward the clouds,

To see another sunrise.