Below the tree,
I'm staring.
It's beauty hidden but so addictive once discovered
Wizened not by time but the wisdom it brings,
It stands, so majestic.
But its leaves are dying and falling from it,
Like only leaves can,
Spiralling so gracefully towards the ground,
Never seeming to get any closer,
Until they hit,
Never making a sound.
I'm thinking how,
Leaves in autumn self destruct,
Its the way the green pigment,
The one that keeps them alive,
Collecting the light from the outside,
Begins.
To.
Decay.
The very thing that gave life,
Slowly starts to kill,
From the inside,
Releasing the beautiful colours,
Of graceful death.
Looking sideways the flush of his red lips,
Remind me,
He is dying in just the same way,
His grey scarf, blue eyes,
Grey breath joins blue skies,
He stands looking spectacular as the leaves,
As he is undone,
As still as the old tree,
His hand on a knot in its trunk,
For comfort or support,
Two of a kind,
The only difference,
The certainty that,
His cycle will never begin again,
In spring.