Once, it embrace my window, its leaves reaching out to touch me through the glass.
And then I returned from away and looked out upon air and a power line; it had been marked for some time, a colon of death, and now began its disappearance.
It stands, limbless, decapitated, stark, tall in the front yard, like some giant child pushed a twig into the earth marking his territory, or perhaps building a sand castle; a beacon of earth about to be turned over.
Halloween is on the horizon and already the spirits have eyed it, preparing to harbor this omen of death outside my window, for life rides upon his coattails flinging her children to fill his black holes that we may not be consumed as well.
There shall be no green, red, brown, or yellow outside my window this fall, but the ghost will remain, hovering, like a cloud still as wood and soft as my memory.