Tree

Leaves leave,
but seeds remain
seen. They germinate
and blossom, often
quite a distance
from the declining tree
that faced the wind
and tossed them. One
may conceive of many
kinds of seed it still extends
to those who breathe air
its synthesis of light
once cleansed and any
who share its shade
or climb its height,
which, through its line
of descendants, reaches
endlessly. In these ways
even grief is wreathed
with green. Branches
do not terminate
as such—not here,
not much. Years nest
in them like finches,
whatever their final
upward flight
might ordain
or mean.