“It’s just a tree, Grammy.”
Our five-year-old grandson
comforts my wife
as we watch
orange-helmeted, goggled workmen
cut down her cherished maple,
wracked by the heartless storm.
Tears fall, branches wave
as if calling for help.
Tree falls, crushes memories,
parents knelt before the sapling
planted when their son was born,
hope the tree they planted
for their daughter
will live longer.
Originally published in Eskimo Pie