Death of a Pear Tree

The pear tree rotted for many years,
its trunk covered in soft spots of sickness before at last bending in a final exhale.
I cut it at the blackened roots before it fell,
while it still had green in its leaves.

The first bright green pear it ever gifted us,
fresh and sour and just right,
we split in four tiny pieces;
The first fruit you ever had
was picked from those enormous branches.

In the summer it shielded us from the sun
and when the deep white winters came
we built huts under its canopy.
Every day for long years
our pear tree kept watch.

I never thought about the tree dying.
After all it's only wood and fruit,
just a piece of scenery.
The tree was nameless, faceless.
It had no tongue for words.

Yet when the pear tree fell I cried.
Even knowing it had to go,
I felt it in my breastbone when it tumbled.
That sort of deep rot can't be fixed
But we know better than most:

You can still grieve despite the knowing.