There stands a leafless old oak tree
silhouetted by a blank gray sky
in a field, alone as it can be.
For years and years I've passed it by.

It died, I guess, six years ago
without giving a clue to the cause
its leaves and twigs the first to go
then small limbs after a short pause.

And the sun set and then it rose
in shutter snaps on the dead tree
till now the bones lean toward repose
in plain sight for all to see.

I mean to capture the tree's final grace
with sun rising behind its gray gaunt form
but it seems that with life's hurried pace
I put it off as is the norm.

Perhaps I have another winter
before it crashes to the ground
with a slow roar as the limbs all splinter
in an end like that which we're all bound.