I spy the loveliest of fair beauty,
Springing from a tree.
She is the grand art of subtle life,
That exists in all the world.
Each branch grows with perfect symmetry,
Matching the sister branches.
The bark is neither too grey nor too peppery,
But a perfect mixture, so right,
All the crevases and lines, of her bark, flow Smoothly,
Creating her delicate skin.
She is yet young, still growing up high,
Trying to reach up into the atmoshere,
And, bees hover around her flowers, so Lavender,
Collecting their much needed pollen,
As sunlight filters from the clouds.
Her petals radiate hope,
At the end of each twig, sit pastel green sparks,
Of her emerging leaves.
Her overall beauty so enthralls me,
That I desire to touch her essence.
Yet, as I reach out to caress her perfect,
She withers away to die.
The hopes and dreams that she procures,
Become as nightmares.
As my spindly fingers connect to her skin,
She transforms into the dust of the world,
Like simple clockwork, in the cruelest of times,
She vanishes away from this world.
At that moment, of my most agonizing, Sorrows,
I remember who I am.
Yet, and despite my very being, sadness is, Felt,
As I recall, that I am death.