On finding my tree dead from frost and exposure

 

I left her out in the sun,

It was warm and her soil moist

But I forgot her.

Midnight’s garden is different today’s,

the temperature dropped

And froze.

Gentle, gentle, soft fronds of green

Changed to gray and brown,

Curling dead fingers.

The ice, like old men’s beards

Hung from her beautiful face.

Once green, now black.

She did not recover;

But shrank into her red pot,

Dead.

No more spring breezes

That so excited her into growth

Would ever again dance through 

Her life loving leaves.

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