A dead tree is sad, but it stands, present,
Benevolent, useful, still in the game.
It has nobility, even when charred
By flames, in the overheat of wartime.
Dead people though, perish in every sense;
Their limp remains plead for quick disposal.
All that’s left is once-removed: memories,
Letters, film of their pomp and garden games,
The sly maintenance of reputations.
Trees, serving nature, have no such baggage.