Slowly,
Once shining spears of nature's glass,
Cry themselves away.
The shards that decorated the freezing arms of aging oaks,
Lose their will to live.
Hopelessly,
Striving for stillness, seeking life,
But doomed to become,
Tears of trees that fall in slow motion in winter's chill,
When the sun's warmth fails.
Finally,
Their journey ends with a triumph,
Not their own but still,
Celebrated by chaos, as order collapses,
With each falling drip.
Drip.
...
Drip.
...
Drip.