Your Grave

I saw your grave today.
Your headstone is a wistfully beautiful tree stump
carved from marble ages ago.
It was once white, dappled with subtle grays in its metamorphic bark,
but the years have spray-coated it in a layer of black,
casting shadows over each ridge, groove, and notch in the surface,
making it seem even more alive.
On the smooth, angled plane that is its top,
two things are carved in relief,
mid-stump – an oak leaf, with two acorns,
and along the curved edge of the cut surface, the words
“My husband”.
I saw your grave today, and assumed that the stump was
a metaphor for your death – cut down in your prime.
At first I was sad, mourned the loss of a man,
but then my mind shifted to the top of this stone stump.
If it is indeed the base of tree, then I can only imagine how glorious a tree it was.
Given the size of the stone, it wasn't an enormous tree,
but a strong, middle-aged stone tree
with many sturdy branches.
This solid marble oak must've stretched twenty-five feet high.
From each well-carved limb
would hang twigs of granite, leaves of mica, and obsidian acorns
all moving and shimmering in the sun and wind
in completely different and equally beautiful ways.
Each fall it would shed treasures worthy of any rock collection.
I picked up a piece of muddy calcite a couple feet away
and set it next to your grave out of respect.
Respect for what a sight that tree must've been.