A pine tree dead
from the stump up
finally cracks
and falls
into its own nest
of splinters.
It leans onto live
sister pines
holding her
as if their sap
could flow
through the deceased,
rejuvenate, reincarnate
the sibling the tighter they hug.
But no, she’s dead weight
they push aside
with a breeze exhale;
they hear her fall,
and silly aspen leaves applaud
or laud her demise.
Her stump spikes
in tombstone silence
to mark her grave,
her green burial
splitting into soil compost.