The Pink Tree

Grazing my cattle far from home,
I suddenly snap out of my reverie,
my hands shake and I drop my stick,
looking ahead at the lone pink tree.

I am not shocked by the color,
or that it is the only tree for miles,
a candy floss wrapped in yellowed grass,
it was a sight for sore eyes.

I am not shocked by its height,
or that it grew in so dry a ground.
A leafy lollypop in yellow hands,
nods with the wind making a moaning sound.

I am shocked by its presence,
where last summer, my son was buried,
a flamboyant tombstone marking a buoyant soul,
growing out of an innocent heart-seed.

Stronger and calmer, I walk up to the tree;
cheek on trunk, I sing his favorite song,
leafy arms engulf me,
and I hear him sing along.