There are different kinds  
Of dead trees: ones that stand,
Others that fall,
And many that lean.

They do not speak green anymore.
Some say, “burnt” or “felled”
Others silently show they
Died from nature’s caprices.

Standing, rooted with eyes
And hearts branching toward heaven,
These beg for mercy, or pity
On their dead, sapless rings

Laying on a bed of sad
Yellow and orange leaves,
These give into rot’s disease
With a silent nod

Leaning on living friends,
Ever green arms not meant to hold,
These are subject to density
Weak roots and deathly winds

Too busy to indulge in sorrow
It seems Mother Nature cannot afford
A bed of colored leaves for all
The beautiful, scarred dead trees.