You think you know

In our small garden lies a fallen tree, struck down before its branches grew. No one knows what caused the dread disease that stifled a life in its infancy. A birch, dead leaves weeping from the dew in our small garden lies. A fallen tree with no marble monument to appease the slender spirit I pretend I knew. No one knows what caused the dread disease. Through my kitchen window, I sometimes see at dusk, its form; a reminder of you. In our small garden lies a fallen tree as dead as the love that scorned my pleas, and left me here to search for someone new. No one knows what caused the dread disease -- or should I say that "no one" is me, still waiting to discover what was true. In my small garden lies a fallen tree. Know one knows what caused its dread disease.