Steady, the massive trunk has remained,

Its web of limbs shuddering in the breeze;

The core, shrouded by layers of faded leaves, stands unstained,

As a greenish worm retreats between crisp, paper leaves.



Far below, a lone, umber trunk and its reaching fingers are in sight,

While larger, knobby roots twist upon the ground, bathing in sunlight;

But most lie beneath, pulling fast, fighting undulation

While the painted shroud soars above, basking in recognition.



Autumn arrives; the net of sunlight is left an emerald canvas;

Failing to splinter, the stubborn worm keeps its fragile palace.



The canvas shrieks, emblazoned with gold and streaks of ocher overbear;

Silently, crawling within, the worm nibbles its ordinary fare.



A brilliant parachute drifts, then smothers the ground;

Lost cousins soon join in an accidental mound.



Inner layers dwindle, the magnificent losing their grasp first;

Even the worm inches out of the nudity in which it is immersed.



The tree's branches are visible, the weathered trunk exposed and

left to rot; the tenant sleeps, and of the rotting tree, the

cocooned creature cares not.