A Lone Tree

The grass is not always greener on the other side.
Today, the grass is brown.
A dirt brown, like mud.
Where there used to be beautiful, long pieces of grass, there are now weeds.
Ugly, brownish-green weeds.

Where the air used to be fresh,
it is now polluted.

The wind blows the air and the trees,
or what’s left of them,
grasp for the hope of a fresh scent.

My friend is dead.
His trunk fell a long while ago,
The men took it away.

I wept for my friend.
I did not want to say goodbye.
Those men are mean for taking my friend.

His trunk has rotted a long while ago.

I am the lone tree.

Is this what happens when humans die?
Do their corpses rot?
Do maggots,
those nasty things,
Craw out of their eyes?

Is this what happens when you die?
Are you remembered by,
Not how green your leaves were,
But by how useful your trunk was?

This, is what happens.

My trunk is rotting.
My roots are breaking.
I am falling.

Not alone anymore.