Late September

A skipped beat- so swiftly I remember
That rotted stump of tree
Felled in late September
Amid the pale anemones.

It’s stature carted, splintered, stacked,
And now reduced to ash,
Taken by a sudden attack-
A severing metal clash

There, the stump sat in grief
Impotent roots clutching dirt-
Rotting in its disbelief,
Nothing but scars relived its worth.

There, its secret hacked to earth,
It made a room for yours
Within the pulp of inner girth,
It contained its tragic stores.

How long the days have pressed to pass,
Wild adventuring laid to rest,
And I’ve neglected your crevasse
That rots now in my chest.

I haven’t called on you, old friend,
In the many lives I’ve borne
While the one that would not mend
Stays ever hidden through the storm

In the rotted husk akin,
Weak and weatherworn,
To all that might have been!

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