Oak

Your leaves the color of fire I stoke,
Sparkling translucent in autumn sun,
Will fall to leaf litter
And in spring be reborn
To my soul's satisfaction
Resting upon humus
Under your chlorophylled canopy.

But today I mourn our friends . . .

The lodgepole pines
The first demise
Taken by logging of recent memory
Though one yet struggles through lonely subsistence
Hidden, sheltered, nurtured by your kind.

I mourn the winged elms
Rarely reaching maturity,
The beetles of drought
Delivering the death
The absence of rain initiated.

The cedars, a scourge to some, I also mourn.
Their evergreen courage here was always welcome,
But even their wells of fortitude have gone dry
And their blackened needles
Lie as graveyard dust beneath my feet.

And, gentle oak, I mourn
Your fallen
Also succumb to this end.
I wish I could water you all,
But my tears are all dried up.