Through the winter we thought she was sleeping. We thought her sap was still rising, her roots still pulsing underground.
Spring arrived with grasses growing, weeds winding, birds calling, but she didn’t answer back with buds bursting, leaves unfurling, blossoms blooming. Instead, her stillness was revealed: limbs stiff, no longer reaching for the light.
Now, when the breezes play, her arms creak and threaten to snap. Her posture is a frail arabesque. Last autumn, we revelled in her shimmering crimson curtains. Felt rich, reaped harvest dreams. We couldn’t have known November’s glory was her final blaze.
She has entered permanent winter.