That tree. 
Branches,
So thin,
And brittle. 
One spare leaf,
Pushed by the wind,
Yet still holding on. 

The sun's light, 
Passing through the leaf;
Now so transparent.
The moon's luminosity, 
Glittering the leaf;
Now so embellished with natural accessories. 

That tree. 
Branches,
So thin,
And brittle. 
Hanging in every direction,
Waiting for the possibility of someone reaching out to them. 

The men come. 
With saws of all sorts. 
To cut the tree,
At it's heart. 
Each branch, removed. 

As the tree falls,
   To no grave,
The leaf remains.
Always alive.
Always remembered.