Green leaves, on long branches,
Stemming from a thick trunk.
Roots pushing out of the ground,
Turning the soil as they grow.
That is what people see when
They look at a tree-
But not I.

I see stories.
Words carved deep
Of love, hate, friendship, and sorrow.
Words that are flung into the world with happiness,
Wishing, hoping, that everyone will notice.
Words that are best untold by a mouth,
But instead are silently shared with quiet listeners.

Broken branches, snapped off in clean cuts.
Perhaps it was a landscaper,
Cursing the tree for growing
“Too high”, “too wide”.
And with a swipe of his saw,
The branch was no more.

Or perhaps it was a child.
Climbing, stretching, leaping,
From branch to branch,
Until the tree, groaning with distress,
Could take the burden no longer,
And the branch was no more.

Scars dot the trunk,
Reminders of the axes,
As woodmen tried again and again
To fell the giant- and failed.

Nails and bits of board remain,
Signs of a tree house that once sat,
Embraced by the strongest of the arms.
Once a leafy paradise for children to come,
To laugh and play, before they grew old.
But the dreaded time came,
And the tree house was no more.

Green leaves, on long branches,
Stemming from a thick trunk.
Roots pushing out of the ground,
Turning the soil as they grow.
That is what people see when
They look at a tree-
But not I.