Barren Winter Elm

When she,
like a mother,
has lost her foliate children,
some drifting past her vision
into territories
she will never know;
others fallen,
mulched into blackened soil
from which all
(ashes to ashes
dust to dust)
derive;
When she,
like a lover,
feels the withdrawal,
the empty appendages
that quiver,
is left only with
the memory of
vibrant
fluttering
life:
Where then
will she turn her focus
(as if the choice were
ever hers);
Where then will she
receive
the meaning of
her being.