My yard is a forrest
Covered in mossy trees
There’s a ditch with muddy water
And a cracked up pavement road
The grass is long and unkempt
And weeds climb the fence.
Loose flowers hang
From drooping bushes.
A sigh can echo
Down the street
Into the forrest
And it’ll be answered by the creak of the wood.
My surroundings are grey
Fifty shades of sorrow
One hundred pounds of gloom
The leaves are changing color
And falling to the earth
Leaving bare bark bones
To spread like fingers to the sky.
All except one
At the corner of the property
The prime of the street
And crown of the yard,
It’s noticably smaller
Than all the others
But stands tall and delicate
Against the rainy winds.
The fog gathers
Hanging over it
Doing it’s best
But it will not succeed
To mist its summer color.
The leaves are a fire red
You can see it from within the forrest,
Not a single leaf has yet to drop
And they shudder and rustle
In a symphony of summer blaze,
It overwhelmes
And enchants the eye
Not letting it’s luminescent color
Fade with the world,
Staying bold through the snow
And skinny branches tough through storms.
A small and loud tree
Stands at the corner of the yard,
It is the jewel of the neighborhood,
A torch for courage
And sticking it through,
The weather cannot weather fire
It cannot douse the flames,
The tree will stay crimson
For 365 days.
I wish to be,
like that crimson tree.
