DEATH OF A CHERRY PLUM TREE

The street is silent.
The sky has stopped crying
and sits, grey, depressed.
Birds huddle, fluff their feathers
chilled by the cold.

They chose to kill her in Autumn
when her crimson-red
would hide her bleeding agony.
Now she lies in view of all
decapitated, strewn over the yard.
Passing cars, slow down in respect.

We remember the good times
when she would lay down her white lace,
covering the ground,
set for a juicy, purple feast.

And remember how she would
make a quilt of soft, red leaves
to warm the earth
before the harsh, cold winter.

Now, she has become
her own shadow.

Our silence chokes the air.