04-27-2014, 05:06 PM
Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.
Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.
With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.
Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.
No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.
Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.
With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.
Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.
No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.