Prose to poem, again Treehouse to Treehouse

Treehouse

 

Trees die.

Not just

by wind,

or flood,

or fire,

or hand of man.

Trees die.

as we ourselves

must do,

to follow

nature’s cycle.

we old give way

to new.

Trees die,

but as a child,

I never knew.

I had a treehouse,

all my own,

outside

bay window

of my room.

Two

sycamores,

protective,

huge,

sifted sun

to leafy shade,

silted blizzard

to sugar sills

I read,

slept,

played

my childhood

among them.

I loved them,

ancient,

yet

ageless,

I was six.

They were

forever.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Prose to poem, again Treehouse to Treehouse

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