Alone and Yet Not

From where it sprung
next to the sidewalk
its spreading foliage
blocks the view from the
adjacent building and
its thirsty roots drink deep
waters from the Earth.

Now the sidewalk detours
around it, as do the passers by.
Once a seed, then a sapling,
now a landmark, an upright
sentinel, a town elder venerated
above the more ambulatory
members of that sagacious coterie.

Lovers’ promises scar the trunk
as high as the arms can reach and
then some.  In spring the first leaves
come early, the cock’s crow for other
trees.  In summer, children
congregate beneath its immense umbrage.
They lie on their backs and
rest in the shade of its fatherly
plumage to play hooky,
plot revenges and share secrets.
In autumn, the leaves turn and
eventually litter the street and
several lawns.  The old woman who
owns the hotel is glad to pay a few
dollars to have some local boys
pick them up.  In winter, the dark
branches loom against the sky; and the
tall, straight trunk stands certain
against the cold and snow.

Each townsperson who passes on the walk
slides an open palm to caress the sleeping giant.
Small children worry that he might not awaken
in the spring; older ones that their friendships
might not last until then; adults that it might
fall to a winter storm.  An old man passes and
remembers a boy who passed years ago and decided
on a whim not to rip up a sapling that was already
encroaching on the sidewalk.