The big one, in the front yard, where Shellie and I used to play.
The one with the faded paint around the base that my grandfather put there - why? I never learned.
The willow outside my window, whose graceful branches shielded me from a world that probably wasn't looking anyway.
You chopped down the tree.
The tree that meant the world to me.
The tree that - maybe? - obscured your view
without stopping to think
how it might have shaped mine.
You chopped down the tree
and with it, a piece of me.
***UPDATE***
I wrote this piece around midnight last night. I woke this morning to find my favorite tree had been torn up by the roots, was completely blocking our driveway, and had destroyed a fence.
Had the tree fallen another way, it would have taken out our power lines, or, more dangerously, landed in my bedroom, where I was sleeping.
I am convinced that my penning this piece is somehow connected to the downing of this tree. It isn't the first time I have had a strange sense about something, only to have it happen within hours.
Pics are proof:
No comments:
Post a Comment