a dead tree mourns the passing of the spring

deep      
inside the heart      
of the desert      
it stands        
       
dead      
       
forever in mourning      
of the passing        
of the spring      
       
more of a stump now      
once the lush      
green      
       
shaped        
by the elements      
the winds      
the sun      
the earth      
the rain      
oh yes the rain      
her influence      
pretty much      
its life      
spanning        
aeons upon aeons      
every mark      
every line      
on its bark      
her spark      
leaving the trail      
shaping its beauty      
       
beauty that is still reflected      
in the midday sun        
even from behind the veil      
of a mirage      
which gives one the impression      
of an an alive and dancing soul      
of the once living      
       
life is but one long process      
of creation      
of memories        
and [their] passing      
away      
   
no one told that tree      
this reality      

all it knew        
was growth      
against    
and with the elements      
       
no one told that tree      
not all springs depart      
to come back      
       
and so it stood      
       
waiting [and, forever]      
alone      
under the sun