The Old Oak Tree

TREES

by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
             THINK that I shall never see
                 A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

This poem was published in 1914. That's probably about the time our large oak tree was planted in front of our house on Wrightsboro Road.
It grew to be very large and quite beautiful. It towered over our front yard and hovered over the street like a green canopy. When we discovered our tree seven years ago, it was hiding amongst a jungle of scrubby bushes and undergrowth that had been neglected for a decade. As we cut away the bramble and brush, there it stood. Crosses were etched in the side of it's trunk. Countless numbers of people had passed that tree, some had stopped to make their mark, some may have stopped for a rest in it's shade. Oh to think if it could have talked.

Even  the strongest, most beautiful things in this world have an end..as did our tree.

Today the city came to cut it down. Too old and too frail to make it safely through too many more storms, it was decided that it must come down. Piece by piece they dropped it. Three foot sections thudded to earth and shook the house. I could not help but feel sad as I watched the pieces fall. Such a grand tree. Such a long life.

Now the blank space seems to scream to me. I know it was just a tree. But I can't help but notice constantly that it's gone.