A Fallen Larch

Mark D. Rosalbo
1 min readSep 11, 2020

I open my eyes and
imagine you,
standing on the hill,
under my morning moon.

So much is here
beside me.
Orange flowers,
purple caterpillars,
yellow cones and
a resilient wind.

And a million dewy zigzagged
webs with yellow striped ladies
dancing beside their
silky wrapped hoppers.

And the wild strawberries, they have spread
to the boundary rocks, and the deer,
and the full-strutted Jakes, searching for hens,
and the Toms, marching their achy bones,
and the curious coyote that always eyes me
suspiciously, down at the field’s edge.

And you,
my sweet fallen larch,
dropping your last
perfect winged seeds.

I can smell your tears.

Mother nature takes notice
and a powerful gust blows them
up, up and away to other fields.

Oh, they will be so happy
to take you in!

Maybe, in the tomorrows that come,
another lost soul
will sit and write, as I do,
next to your accomplishment,
long after I am gone,
grinning at the thought of
your wonderful seeds.

While my bones
sleep in the soil.



Mark D. Rosalbo

Barnstormer. Father of five. Re-examiner of the American Dream.