A
Douglas Fir
in our backyard
has died.
Its picture perfect
posture
drew the eye heavenward
through needles and cones
up its narrowing spine
Toward Infinity.
The grandfather of the homestead
made the blue sky coy as it played peek-a-boo
through thin as angel wing foliage.
Now the tree is dead and gone.
Beetles made a weakened old man their target.
Boring through layers of skin, the invaders left behind
ravenous offspring who feasted on the old man's vascular system
until the fatal stroke occurred. His complexion faded from green to yellow to brown
to ashen gray.
This death does not go down easily, yet is the way of things.
Impermanence.
He had a long life.
He shaded and
inspired. Avian
families nested
in his steadfast
arms. A stump
memorializes
where he lived
and died and
will live again.
For even death
is ultimately
impermanent.
Resurrection
in the form of
compost for
whipper snappers
who barely got to
know him in his final
year. In their roots,
stems, leaves, flowers
and fruit, the old man
will find a new lease on life.