His image she'd see, when she viewed "her tree,"

For like a tree, he had always stood tall,

To weather the storms presented by life,

And to face every stress and not fall.

 

God made him that way, she decided,

That's why she called him "her tree,"

He sheltered, cared for, and helped her,

And kept her as safe as could be.

 

After he died, she wept and she cried,

Then planted a tree just for him,

Which through the years, sustained by her tears,

Would grow big and strong, limb by limb.

 

Then when she grew old, she'd sit 'neath "her tree,"

Which would be unyielding and proud,

With branches so wide, so high in the sky,

They'd  challenge even  the clouds.

 

A humble tree ... with dignity,

So  pleased to rattle its leaves,

In raucous laughter or gentle mirth,

When wild winds or sweet breezes teased.

 

The fruits it produced would feed all in need,

Hungry birds, starving beasts, or poor men,

There'd be enough food for whole multitudes,

And they would eat again and again.

 

It would harbor and shade the old and afraid,

As folks were no longer aggrieved.

 

Its trunk so hard that marks could be carved,

That declared one's love for another,

Arrows and hearts denoted sweethearts.

With initials cut deep for lovers.

 

How could she not see the man she loved,

When she would sit beneath "her tree,"

For the tree and he were similes,

And he was all she truly could see.

 

Virginia (Ginny) Ellis

Copyright November 2008

 

For Francine Pucillo at the Loss of
"Her Tree," Her Beloved Artie.