The weeping tree was red with loss
Dripping orange in the pale moon
And all the night around was blue
The night the young tree wept.
The young tree lay bare in the cold dawn,
But before the cold day the grief glowed,
Fire flowing from trunk to stem
Golden ichor dripping where leaves once blew.
Metamorphosis will always be a spiritual affair
The via dolorosa comes upon man and tree alike
There is no beauty in the wounds of death,
But the passage through fire will always be a dance.