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I knew a man.
He used to be a fancy tree.
I always
Always
Wondered
If he ever became a leaf.
Or if he grew into a forest,
Lacking bereave,
Leaves falling
Orange and yellow,
As a changing season does, indeed.

I wondered if the weather marred his branches and
How, so, the bitter winters
He fared, too.

I wondered how his roots
Sprouted
Spring flowers,
Or how cool the showers
In bloom
Affected his autumns.

I was just a rusted saphire,
Often buried, often
Hiding
Just across the way.
I couldn't get to him,
He was so
Green
And had his own ways.

Though I always wanted to protect him,
How could I.
A buried gem,
a silent fancy entity,
Not an open branch, not built
A bridge for me.

I rusted after such
Contention.
The man did not want
To see me.
Even as I succumbed,
I vowed to always look upon
Him, to hold his memory dear.

Fear sometimes guides,
But altruism
And goodwill
Allowed me to blow away
Into a pond
To un-rust,
start anew, for
What the green tree
Couldn't do.
Solicitude for him
I always held.