WaltzingChicken

I was eight years old when I realized I was going to die. I was eight years old when I started hating the colour yellow. My grandmother finally succumbed To a battle waged by cancer That had gone on from the furthest edge Of my memory And she left us On a dusty yellow morning. At the hospital There was a tree Whose branches sagged Under the prairies' sun And I’d watch it dance in the wind As I sat beside my grandmother, The tree’s leaves always seemed to be yellow, Despite the summer glowing around it. This tree performed a ballet To the symphonic rhythm of the dying woman’s heartbeat And I lived for the music. It’s