Tree. 
Oak tree.
Strong but gentle. 
Holding the young vibrant songsters in spring.

Alone in the valley.
A valley filled with lupines.
Where once we shared a life.
It could have been paradise on earth.

It was.

Long ago.
When we were young.
Young and innocent.
And vibrant.

Sitting beneath that tree.
When it was a younger tree. 
But never as young as me.

And never as young as she.

Valley wide and passion deep.
Tender blossoms blooming profusely
Between the grasses covering the floor.

Breezes carrying perfumed profundity.
Sunlight dappling the ground around the tree.
Warmth of summer days spreading over our youthful bodies.

Gracious giving and receiving.
Repeating our mantra of tender ministrations.
Touching and being touched.
Protected and cherished, and nourished.

Beneath the powerful arms of the tree.

Of life.
Life lived but ever so short.
So short, but still cherished, and remembered.
Now.

Beneath the arms of the tree.

The dance has come to an end beneath the limbs
Spreading out to the skies.
It's just me.
With no dancing left in me.

Oak tree.
Alone in the valley,
As it was once before.
When we were young and free.

Strong.
Always stronger than me.
My strength has drained away from me.

Young.
Always younger than me.
And I will always, now, be older than she.

Alone
In the valley
Of the tree.