Silver birch
No more,
Scrolls of papery bark
Sloughed off like dead skin.Roots so deep
They cradle half the hilltop
Can’t hold you there forever.

Already you are worm meat,
A buffet for woodborers and fungi
A footstool for moss and lichen.
Yet you will linger
In my memories.

Two decades of family photos
Have graced your low-slung bough—
Seasons changing,
Inexorable growth and decline.
Like a beloved grandparent
You share with us
The passage of time.