A dim Monterey moon, reluctant to rise,
speaks ill of the oaks in the grove.
An expected site of grandeur, of green,
lush life is stolen at once.
The night's secret now told,
the oaks lie withering, dripping
with mossy disease. Once bold,
their voices now whisper.
Slowly they suffer the undignified leeching.
An honor it would have been to burn
in a glorified blaze, quick and final.
Restarting fresh then, as seeds in fertile lands.
The pathetic forms shy into the grass.
~Kristi Miles (July 2005)