A Dead Branch

A tree grows with a rotten branch

by a lake with a calming breeze;

And though it holds this great dead weight

it stands with relative ease.

Decaying wood by new spring buds 

seems like a detriment,

why not remove the scar of death

why cling to what's been spent? 

Perhaps it waits for a wind most strong

to prune with a powerful gust,

the limb which then, will fall to the ground

where moss will grow like rust. 

But till that day, the tree will grow

and shade it's scar with leaves.

A dead branch, or a sentiment? 

Such is the way of trees.