BY MADELEINE CHOU
Staff Writer
The withered black limbs
Of the old beech tree
Grasp nothing.
Winters bring transient snows
Springs, the effervescent glows
Summer, the stifling heat
Of sunbaked streets and candied sweets.
But the withered black limbs
Of the old beech tree
Grasp nothing.
Feel nothing.
Autumn falls
And the tree recalls
Dashing reds and honeyed golds
Acres of soft leaf throne.
But the withered black limbs
Of the old beech tree
Grasp nothing —
Not even fall’s resplendent robes.
Yet, behold!
The fiery glow
Of the faithful sun’s last hours
Rests close to the barren boughs —
Crowning limbs with fire.
The withered black limbs
Of the old beech tree
Grasp all,
Bask all
Clutching its brilliant red pyre.