Curfew

There are three
trees in the meadow.
One is short and
wide, coarse and
old. One is quiet in
lichen, tall and
fair. One is sprightly and
smooth, still a bit
green. The old one's
branches gray, and she
falls. The tall one
rises, leading to the
sun. She grows worn
on her journey, then
slips into stillness.
The green one watches
with sorrowful eyes, 
falling through impenetrable
grief. Centuries pass
before she musters the
will to teach the younger
sprouts the Art of Letting
Go, until she fades
into the dusky horizon
and into the arms of
her predecessors.