Not a leaf left on it now,

No green or gold on creaking bough.

No rustles as the wind runs through;

Whispered words to me, from you.

 

Its branches snake into the sky,

A winding silhouette up high

Against the rising morning light

A fading memory of night.

 

A lone bird rests atop the tree,

I feel it look and call to me,

It flies away, again I see

An ever-fading memory.

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