A bit of prose that was inspired by the thoughts of a life lived that retains a presence inspired by a tree that lived while in the golden era of the Fire Island glory days. It was the perfect metaphor for the lives richly lived there but retain only a partial presence. I look at the standing remnants of a dead tree its leaves gone forever. The small branches missing and scattered across the ground years ago, The safe coating of bark stripped away. What remains is that grand figure frozen in time lifting its arms upward, it’s still dancing.

The Frozen dance.

Rooted it stands defiant against time.
Windswept arms wave a cycle to hills and sky.
Blazing foliage celebrates and honors life.
Wounded by the might of time.
Still pushes arms to the sky.
The day comes a moving dance ends.
Fallen leaves scatter to distances.
Bracken drifts off inevitable.
Arms that reached and waved lock in place.
Still reaching and celebrating.
Times of colorful motion.
A symbol of the cycle.
A monument to the dance.
Now frozen in time.