Birch Tree Elder

There is a dead birch tree out in back,
at least I think it’s dead, if not dead,
then dying, for it is bereft of leaves
while cousins flaunt Spring couture.

Closer, the crab apple is in full bloom;
pink blush applied across an azure sky
filled with cream-puffed clouds, and the
conifers have given birth to infant cones.

Beyond the dead or dying or sickly tree --
bordering the bog -- box elder and various
maples -- red, black and silver -- all thrive,
a backdrop for the bare spars of the birch.

Four trunks once rose from a central bole,
although two end abruptly, sundered by saw
about fifteen to twenty feet, while another
splits into a seventy foot, pale, peace sign.

It’s grounded on a reef of soil, anchored by
boulders at each end with bulbs coming up,
caressing the carcass, but squirrels and birds
use it still as a waystop and to reconnoiter.

Paper birches can live eighty to 140 years,
I looked it up, but die sooner in captivity;
significance in this seems just out of reach
as I was not here during its glorious days.

The gardener volunteered he can remove and
replace the tree for some amount I didn’t catch;
however, it seems absurd to put a price on the
past majesty of such a tree, so I’ll just let it be.

Looking a bit green around the gills today,
not seasick, but a glimmer of new growth;
perhaps, like me, it takes longer to thaw from
Winter hibernation, so I’ll just wait and see.