a good poem which has won good reviews in an online poetry contribution. the poem was written based ona picture of a dishrivelled tree. BUT A GARMENT One by one, fall my leaves, My mighty mind grieves; Bare and cold, I stand up high, Heaving oft, a tired sigh. Why, oh why is this my plight? I am such a pitiful sight! Naked and vulnerable am I, My mighty body, would fain die. Where is the green? Where is the green? Why does it all go unseen? Cant't they see my precious drops? My loud laughter, with a sob, stops. I shake my arms, with all my strength, I am open, my entire length; There is none to whisper to me, Of wisdom or of fantasy. I wait long, in the cold, Through fall and winter, feeling old; There is none to caress my mighty limbs, But the chilly wind that swims. I have no garment to cover me, I am the mighty, sorrowful tree; I grieved and whined all day long, Till I heard a more pitiful song. It was of a man who sat below, On the cruelly cold, winter snow, He had no clothes, nor no shoes, I saw his body, filled with many a bruise. I asked him what had befallen him, He answered me, his face so grim; He had no money, nor no chance, From his life, had vanished, song and dance. He spent his days in the cold, Every day, he grew more like mold; He had no hope to get it back, All in his life, that he did lack. On reflection for a momnet, I know, I have no need to curse the snow; For, I at least, have the light of hope, I have no reason to mourn and mope. I chuckle a little, I smile much more, On my way to Spring's sea-shore; I admire my bare body without leaves, My mighty mind, no longer grieves. I stand up high, enduring the freezing gale, That untiringly travels from vale to vale; Many a being casts at me, an admiring stare, Though I shed what I wear. As we happily usher in our midst, The spring; She clears, the winter's mist; My leaves, as always, I renew, As the tiny birds go - coo coo! Rejoicing the youthful season of spring, I happily and proudly sing, That I blodly endured the cold, And I am green again, behold! For why? Even the man that lost all hope, Now, no longer has a reason to mope; In summer and spring, his abode, my shade, I am a life-giver, like the falling cascade. And in autumn, when I shed my leaves, My mind rejoices and not grieves, For, this man, with them, makes fire, And even his bed, when for the day, he does retire. So why, oh why should I be sad? I am nothing more but glad! My leaves are but a whispering dress, Whose loss would mean no more, no less.