The Tree

The sun is still warm at the end of this day.
Here I sit with some music, swinging my afternoon away.
All around me the plants are in bloom,
welcoming spring and saying farewell to winters gloom.
And off in the distance what should I see,
but a tree.
Not a dogwood or an alder, but a big pine tree.
He’s tall and he’s lean, he’s the tallest tree that I see.

Oh Mr. Tree, tell me, what can you see?
And what have you seen, come every spring?
Your half-bare limbs are swaying in the breeze,
as if you are waving directly at me.
I see you waving, and I hear you say through the breeze,
“Hey look at me!, I’ve made it through winter, and I’m as well as can be.
I am the oldest, the tallest, the wisest,
tree you can see.”

April, 1998