Trees are allowed to grieve.

crumpled sorrow falls in vividness

painting the floor

in ruby red blood, rust orange sweat,

decay brown despair.

trees are allowed the luxury of death

reverting back into their core, their roots

escaping the brutal truths winter brings

hardened in the wind

confirmed in the frozen ground they have

rooted in.

festooned in the envious demons they surmounted

trees are allowed to bloom again

triumphant over their darker seasons.

without giving cause

without giving reason.

Perhaps this is the vitality of the forest

the humble and solitary

transformation found in death.