Observing the Death of a Young Norway Spruce

Six of seven stand strong,
erect, lifting new shoots to
the sky.
Only one cries a goodbye.
Only one withers,
goes from green to brown,
dropping needles to the ground.
Day after day
the tree goes away.
Sometime soon,
some noon, afternoon
it will have given up
the bloom.
To the other six, deep green,
I only glance.
The dying tree begs
to be seen.
I watch as if in a trance
the passing of the green
praying, hoping
for a new bud
to be seen.
The tree is dry.
It utters but a whimper of a cry.
In it’s veins, there is no juice.
I pray a good journey
to eternity
for the young and tender
spruce.

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