I sat beneath a melting tree—
that which was made from clay.
Though as solid as it seemed,
I knew it would one day erode away,
as all great things tend to do—
experiencing rain for the very first,
and the very last time.
I listened for the pitter-patter,
the rat-tat-tat falling upon
the melting matter
that turned from clay
into muddy water.
I knew, soon,
that such a tree
would no longer protect me—
as it would become a lonely stream
that may carry me away.
I did not object,
in hopes that one day
I might return—
when the leaves upon the melting tree
had grown anew,
and the rain would cease
to melt the lonely, hollow yew.
And my life would be finished,
as I have readied my urn—
to take me back
to where I had been long before—
beneath the clay tree
that would seem to melt away
by the tears of its mother...
and our mother, too.