Wonder if they’ll believe
our stories of fluttering,
full-on yellow ash trees
against unbroken autumn sky.
Words alone can’t express
the jolt of pure color
before woods faded to gray.
Another generation
told of ancient chestnuts
lording over the mountains
before blight erased them
from landscape and memory.
First hand they witnessed
the beauty, grieved the loss.
Perhaps we should paint
noble portraits of our trees
in the prime of their lives
to hang over our mantles
like beloved ancestors,
reminding us what was lost
when ashes faded to gray.
