The tree--
a grasping hand
yearning for a touch of heaven.
Vines dangle, dead, from the branches--
nooses speak of death.
Littering the ground,
rotting leaves of years past.
Gossamer threads of silk
clinging desperately to peeling bark--
a spider has made its home here.
Weeds mock the tree with their abundance;
the young trees' limbs flirt
with these spindly ones,
flaunting their green life
with an air of naivete.
But--
what is this?
Despite the lifeless look,
despite the surrounding death,
new shoots tell of a hopeful future.
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