They tore down that good old tree

That sat at the bottom

Of the town's favorite hill,

Blessing the crescent

Between graceful mound and open field.

The far-reaching roots survived the building

Of the town around

Just to stand there,

Peacefully.

We used to run to and back

In soccer practice, dodging bulging roots,

And sled down the hill's embracing slopes

Every year.

The tree was marvelous,

Healthy and shade-giving,

Fat-trunked and tall,

Full of nests and the personality

Of an elderly woman,

So full of age, so full of wisdom.

And in the fall, the leaves were shed

In a unique shade of an orange ablaze,

One that dazzled and amazed

Our youthful eyes

Like simmering sparks slowly soaring.

In the spring and summer,

Passing cars noticed its great grandeur,

And cyclists stopped at the sight

Of the thousands of little ‘Twirleycopters’,

As we used to call them,

Thown into the breezy air.

And below the outstreched branches, occasionally sat

A person reading, thinking, or dreaming.

And in sledding season

The wooden cacoon froze,

Waiting excitedly to one day bloom again,

With tiny icicles drooping towards the earth

That reflected the bundled up gazers

Who enjoyed the wintery wonder.

Even under a foot of pillowy snow,

The natural slopes of the hill

Steered the gleeful sleds

Clear from the trunk;

Nobody ever was hurt.

And even after a hundred years

Of growing in the same spot,

Its color was numb to some,

A ‘safety hazard’ it was called

Diminishing the abundant beauty

To just an unsafe, useless resource in the way.

And so they tore down that good old tree

Which still sits well in my memory.

And now the tree is gone

-The hill is bare-

And the tree is gone.