Upon the hill of summer's waning
with other trees still retaining green,
She grew aloof
among the throng of branching beauty
but daily swayed her praying hands of want.
'Til at the hint of Autumn's coming
with scent of savor always tempting,
she'd stretch her leaves in anxious show
with tips of steepled fingers
grasping at his first sacred breathing
in hopes he'd linger near her praise
within her enclave ever thirsting
And from her bursting veins of hope
seeped the sap of love's libation,
'til spice of glowing offered speckle,
begun at ends and bleeding downward
at sound of warm wind's delicate singing,
ringing beauteous with tune of teasing--
while other trees seemed languid.
And yet that blessed, wafting blow
neither stopped nor slowed his singing
at her early-turning limbs,
or supplication's sweetest pleading,
But passed without perception's knowing
at growing sacrifice's yearning;
and emptied burning went unobserved--
not even viewed as iridescent fluke.
Then from oblation's gift exhausted
and blind anticipation's striving,
colors, emboldened for breeze's pleasing,
faded--
prematurely paling--
and disappointment's dire infection
bled through soul as bleach,
injected through her soft venation
and supple trunk
'til even twigs gave way to trembling
and tumbled far
to grounded echo's rumbling
in broken offering
and adoration's alchemy gone awry.
And every leaf of yearly adulation
fell unheard upon the hillside hollow
then blew away in ashen sorrow
and final benediction.
Silver trophy winner
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