If there is anything I hold as an object of religion, it is the cedar tree, and as I lay on the floor to write, I am forced to acknowledge that it may be too late for this one. The needles curl under, brittle, and the top hints at shades of brown. The coffee can in which it sits is host to tiny flies, which nibble at the tops of the soil.
The worst is never knowing- did I water it too much, or too little?
Was the coffee can too small?
Did it ever have chance, here in the East, this Western red cedar?
Perhaps the flight alone was too much overwhelming, or perhaps
Cedar trees don't live in dorms, and can't be kept inside.
At any rate, I will know only
(not whether I can be blamed, or why)
that the tree is dead.
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