The mourning tree

Once again I am
High lifting the cup
To you, only meaningful
Deed I have in store to do.
Badly I have been wishing
To talk to you, through a glass we
Would still unveil decaying illusions
That kept us together.
A dry tree, surviving a flare,
Seeking colours and
Dipping rooths in aqua vitae,
Still sees beauty in the world;
Unwilling to catch hit,
Stretches its branches
To be caressed by mild sun,
To be shaken by moist wind,
Waiting for new leaves,
That at times seems to arise,
And at times heavily fall
In a white and brown grey winter.