Am I the wilted flower
or the towering oak?
Abandoned by the leaves
who so wish to see me thrive,
only to rejoin me
in a most relieving spring.
Like an old friend,
they know me and complete me.
Speaking in a tongue
reserved for those with new skin.
The perished fallen I've shed
live only in a resentful reflection
having strayed miles away
in time's senseless winds.
Perhaps by now they've crumbled
under the weight of our separation.
Their limbs one with the soil,
their frames dust in a still, winter air.