Compensation

As winter draws near, the myrtles,

bare and unassuming, stand stiffly. 

Soon, they will feel the icy bitterness

of days and shadows growing shorter.

Only now do I see the distant, towering oaks,

imposing and flush with green leaves,

as their bird-nesting crowns sway 

in a soft wind and reach into the clouds.

In summer, the oaks bear no bright flowers 

that later fall and leave a sense of loss felt. 

Their color does not mark changes

of circumstance or fate remembered. 

In our mourning of death, the oaks, 

timeless in endurance and grandeur, 

are unseen and forgotten.

Blooms of the myrtles are reborn.

Originally published in Reedy Branch Review