Withering Away

Thus the plants wilt, and a rose thorn to be pricked

Moss begins to grow upon the silken trunks of a tree,

The skyline full of teary clouds wasting away at a chance to burst into tears,

All leaves fallen to the hands of the soil, worms feasting like savages against their skin,

The dead no longer rise; and the living no longer live,

You’d believe by now as we grow we’d come to understand mother, her soft whispers through the howls of the wind, the streams which rock and shake into a frenzy of fun waves, her soft hair which flows with green.

Though as time slips from my hand, I merely can enjoy what she had to give, for to ask for more would be stripping the joy of what I have been given. 

Slowly, as I wither away I give mother one final hug from which I descend with her once more into our earthy home.