Dull Eyes

It isn't very important
the way the tree grows up off the side of the pond-
a man-made one in between the picnic benches
and the railroad tracks,
its roots fighting its way to the surface
of the water.

Of course it's not important
the way the roots dive back into the water,
underneath the ground
that might have once been a subject of life
to only become one
that was forced into purpose.

It isn't very important
the way I sit by myself at a picnic bench
as it gets dark and very cold-
leaves fall with the same grace as they did each time before
and as the sky sets beyond the tracks
the tree only mumbles
"I watch it die every evening.
It never fails to tell me how things change."

I never saw anything
like it was its last time
and I'm sure those who had been watching all along
never did either, even when
it was gone.