It's branches a perfect place for shade,
a comfort no talking mouth could offer.
Dressed in bright motley, her smile grew
to cover that which the motley could not.
Employed by no King or Court, instead,
whim was indulged. The branches of her
tree was the only home she knew. So it went
time after time, alternating between comfort
and joy. What of the pests feeding from
the fruit of the tree? Holding its fruit in her
hand she found it ripe with decay. Barely
visible feet crawling within and without.
She reached for another, and another,
and another, only to find the same face
of decay. The colours of her cheeks
became streams converging at her chin.
Poor tree, poor me she thought.
Poor, tree, poor me.
She pulled buckets upon buckets
of water from the well and poured them
over the fruit, the branches and leaves
hoping to stop the approaching pestilence.
Her arms burned with pain, the muscles
unaccustomed to this strain. She collapsed
and fell into a damp sleep at the base
of the tree. The water began to overwhelm
the roots as the dirt flooded. Slowly,
they began to decay out of sight.
When she awoke, the leaves and fruit
surrounded her, the trunk dying.
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