It floats ...

It floats towards me

on the screen of my phone,

the old tree: dead, but 

still beautiful, one slim trunk

and a few spiky branches

pointing to the sky,

in the photo I took

after years of loving – 

parking the car where I could

and walking back to the only

and awkward vantage, 

when that long intention

felt suddenly urgent –

one week before the next time

I drove past, to see in that spot

a neat stack of logs. Now, not even 

that. Now there is nothing left, 

except this photograph.