Where Death Stands Tall

The roots have risen while the green is no more.
What now grabs for the sky had once been under Earth’s floor.
Growing strong with new bark to turn soft for one’s whittle,
The life of a tree makes ours look so little.
Each branch shall dance in the whispering wind
And as age consumes in rage, these trees will have thinned.
The bark is now skinned and the leaves are now brown.
Within this humid climate, the tree has just drown.
Now lacking color, unlike all the others.
The tree is dead, still buried in its bed.