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Three Years
by Thomas D. Reynolds
My first day of life,
I was lifted from shale
of a red clay stream
and set among stones,
turning my new face
to the granite sky.
At one I held my own,
face bent to the sod
in a wind-swept field
sniffing mites and worms
before being raised again
in the August air.
By two my branches were dying,
pitching and groaning,
with one small crow
clutching a thin branch
bucking in a storm,
set to fly.
At three I passed away,
spilled from a paper cup
set too close to the edge,
only a few droplets left,
sipped by sweat bees
in the summer sun.
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