Tree Friend


When I was young and at my Grandpa’s farm,
A summer afternoon could often turn quite warm.
Cousins Joyce, Eris, and my sister Gin
Would join me and the “play-like” would begin.

There was a giant oak so tall and wide,
Its limbs invited us to come inside.
We swept the grassless dirt with homemade broom
And, using sticks, we marked off every room.

Those sky-high limbs gave us a spacious feeling;
This spreading green became our playhouse ceiling.
Protection from the summer sun’s bright ray
And shelter when brief showers came our way.

The four of us pretended we were grown
Young mothers having children, all at home.
The afternoon was filled with household chores
Like washing dishes, cooking meals, and mopping floors.

No one knows how many hours we’d spend
Playing house beneath our cool green friend.
If trees could talk, what stories they would tell,
But this one kept his secrets ‘til it fell.

They sold the farm and moved the house one day.
They cut him down ‘cause he was “in the way”.
When I returned and saw him lying dead,
I caught my breath and quickly turned my head,
For I had lost the dearest kind of friend;
The kind that welcomes you and lets you in.

So treasure every true friend you may find.
Remember to be gentle and be kind.
Be faithful, whether fair or foul the weather,
For you never know how long you’ll be together.


Alice M. Scott April 1984