In our small garden lies a fallen tree,
struck down before its branches grew.
No one knows what caused the dread disease

that stifled a life in its infancy.
A birch, dead leaves weeping from the dew
in our small garden lies. A fallen tree

with no marble monument to appease
the slender spirit I pretend I knew.
No one knows what caused the dread disease.

Through my kitchen window, I sometimes see
at dusk, its form; a reminder of you.
In our small garden lies a fallen tree

as dead as the love that scorned my pleas,
and left me here to search for someone new.
No one knows what caused the dread disease --

or should I say that "no one" is me,
still waiting to discover what was true.
In my small garden lies a fallen tree.
Know one knows what caused its dread disease.



�2007 by Tara Birch