That sweet olive that bent over dirt drive
Passed away late last night.
There was no pain, no prayer, no repentance.
Cold weather, plain neglect, old age,
All of long life’s common excuses applied
Along with continual need for rest.

It’s not that pained repentance was needed,
Though in its later years
There was little fruit given, less taken.
Even green jays and brown thrashers,
Those quarrelers that would often stop by,
Ended raucous visits as leaves curled dry.

Perhaps those live oaks, tall youths by far tank,
Will miss its wise old songs.
Advice that rustled every now and then,
Borne on chimes that greeted bright dawns,
Forgiveness of sins, psalms for future hurts
Gone, to soon become ash, chimney smoke dreams.