l'arbre de ma mere

Standing,
Half-dead
In the marshes,
Roots grip relentlessly to Earth.
The leaves have all secured their own death though it is barely June.
Insects scatter in search of new residency,
Eventually, oxygen too will abandon this great oak.
Unaware of itself,
Blind to its own corroding bark and petrifaction,
This tree cannot see what the surrounding forest now sees,
Though it can feel it.
There is beauty in its ignorance,
Arms lift up towards the heavens
Saying silent, unanswerable prayers.
Branches stretch westward,
Reflecting on summers when the phoenix came to nest.
It has done all it can,
Which is,
All we really can ever really do,
Now it stands and waits.