O, Sylvan

From the tree line of mind,
That shelter belt of feelings:
Grief, regret, fear, disquiet,
These loose leaves rustle
Like background noise.

From the windbreak of time,
I count your tree rings.
You count mine,
Traded like cords of wood:
Duty, tariff, tax, and all.

Sentinel in a drying sylvan,
Gatekeeper of a dying land,
Feel that sting of existence,
Wear your wreath of laurel,
Pray for love tomorrow.