To watch a death trickle outwards

like water, down through the ranks 

of family and friends to rest at the roots

of the tree that housed you: your loss

is not ripples or waves or raindrops

or tears. Your death is seismic, an uprooting,

a dangerous precedent, a prophecy

which stands dripping on a dry day

and insists on its own rightful weight.

The leaves bow under the stress, the branches

dip their heads lower for your loss.