I wished I was the tree
outside of your house.
With its broad green leaves
and spreading branches.
I dreamed I was your tree.
I would be tall enough for you
to stretch over your lawn,
and peer down through the window
while you slept.
Watching over you,
a sentinel for all seasons,
Immoveable, and solid.
I wished I was your tree.
But the tree, they said,
despite green leaves and a solid trunk,
was bad on the inside,
and needed to be cut down.
And so they sawed off its limbs
and then cut it in half
and ground the stump to the grass,
but I still wished to be your tree.
split and rendered
to firewood alone,
I would still warm your body.
I still wished to be your tree.
But the wood, they said,
was diseased and unsound
not fit for the heat of the hearth,
but I still wished to be your tree.
Too filled with the beetles,
or so they had said,
to even be left for a log,
but I still wished to be your tree.
The wood, it was loaded
in a truck to be chipped
and shredded to mulch,
but I still wished to be your tree.
Now, it is gone.
Unseen to the eyes from above,
its roots still winding deep and strong.
But I still wished to be your tree.
Trees, made as they are, above,
as well as below, are twice what they seem,
and sheering the top takes but half.
I still want to be your tree.
Let me stay, nestled deep,
in the ground of your lawn
touching your foundation,not windows.
I still wish to be your tree.
