My Dear Ash
It won’t mean anything, but I will never know your age
until your fall. And then, only by the deepest cut.
Though you still may hold on to it, it’s been taken
from you, nonetheless. Who would think that
such a lovely color could be so deadly? But it is.
Was, for you. That emerald bore right into you,
and you no longer stand resolute, only silent.
This poem is my response to Poetics: Passion Stamped on Lifeless Things,
the prompt from Merril at dVerse ~ Poets Pub,
which is to write about a historical artifact.
I’m sure this tree has a history.