The dead tree never stands lonely.
At the top the silhouettes
of birds come and go,
nesting in the nooks.

Branches sticking out like
Indecisive fingers, pointing enigmatic directions.
It’s trunk is covered with thick, green ivy
asserting a kind of dignity, uniform.

Keeping it warm in the harsh winters
and concealing the weathered, bare bark in the summer
while everything else expands outwards;
in colour, full bloom.

The dead tree stands in the middle of it all.
For the moment, standing steady,
I would never describe this dead tree as lifeless.