I Was Friends With A Tree Once

It was a sugar maple. Fairly average in size, a good Number of branches, some Low enough to climb for a Child like myself. I was never very athletic, Hated all sorts of sports, But this tree, this one tree I could climb. I would scramble up her Branches in spring after School, and tell her all About my day, in my head Of course, because who In their "right mind" talks To themselves? In summer, after I Completed that day's Workbook assignment, I would sit between the leaves And read the latest book I had checked out of the Local library, my second Favorite place to be. When her leaves began To change in fall, I would Climb her cool limbs In my puffy jacket and Let the crisp October air Flow through my hair. He (the wind I mean) Was my other best friend. But the sweet maple also Kept me high up, away from The house below where Mom and Dad would yell, Where Dad would throw Plastic cups my Mom got From the nursing home, Where Mom would sob And pray he would stop. And I prayed then, too. Prayed I could one day fly, Take to the sky like the Birds in the feeder below. I would pray for friends, too. Human friends, I mean. I don't think God could hear, Even high up in my tree. The tree isn't there now. As I grew up, it grew sick. The leaves fell earlier every Year until one spring, they Just didn't grow back. And so the laundry lines Were cut, and my old, Sweet sugar maple tree Became my uncle's firewood, My Dad's smoking chips. You can't see where she was Anymore. The final remnants Of the stump have rotted away. Only grass remains where Once my friend stood, where The wind whispered sweet Nothings in my ear, where The setting summer sun Would trickle through the Jade-green leaves, the Leaves that turned upside-down When a storm was coming. Now I've moved away from That house. Two-thousand Miles away to a desert that Has never seen a sugar maple. I can't climb trees anymore. Seems that skill died with My friend. I think I feel what She was feeling. Still relatively Young, but health slipping By every year. Someday my stump will Rot away. No trace of me left To tell you I was there. But Maybe, someone will move in With a child, and I can listen as She tells me her dreams, And we can watch the stars Together.