I am like a young beech tree.
I sag from the weight of the living and yet I hang on to the dead.
I am rotting, golden bits of photosynthesis.
I take light from the world so my loved ones can be fed.
I am a withering ghost of winter.
Left with the leaves of the past that I refuse to shed.
I am a decaying, quivering romance
Fragile and frightened of what's ahead.
My love, we are like young beech trees.
We sag from the weight of the living and yet we hang on to the dead.