That one birch tree

15 Jun

There’s this tree

in your backyard, remember?

Scored with beer caps and childhood fingers.

You yelled at me about that once, the sacredness of

your baby tree.

When I was small, it was boxed in, protected,

wood painted in rust.

You held it’s hand, told it stories of who would come

to lie in it’s branches. Kept it clean.

Felt it’s verdant leaves with your eyes.

I sat upon that box as a child, my fingers

digging through the earth for sticky earthworms, warm and

flailing in my hands. I would cut it’s little world

in half, to see if it was true, that half a worm would become yet another.

I came back one day to find

your box had disappeared, your tree,

taller than the house now taller

than I, it’s greenery stretching

between the power lines, escaping.

“I remember” you said. “When that tree,

when it was no taller than you. It’s trunk

delicate and forgettable. Your arms could

reach right around it.”

You said it had broken free one morning. You

walked down the crumbled concrete steps, found the red wood had

fallen to the side, exposing the tree at it’s throat.

One Response to “That one birch tree”

  1. Jason Dufair June 15, 2007 at 12:52 pm #

    Bittersweet. Tangible. Thanks, Thor. You’re a continued inspiration.

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