It wasn’t so long ago I came,
To find you waiting—
Still and strange,
A little wild,
With silence in your frame.
You were young,
But already bowed—
Your arms hung low,
Like they had held
Too many moments, somehow.
No one had tended your reaching limbs,
Your green fingers brushed the ground,
Your droppings lay like scattered thoughts—
Unnoticed, unclaimed, unsound.
I touched you, gentle,
Trimmed with care,
Like soothing a child’s troubled hair.
Soft, slow, a quiet grace,
In your stillness, I found a place.
Through your boughs, the horizon grew—
A sun that sank in golden fire,
Jets sketching lines across the blue,
Stars that danced on a silver wire.
From my bed, a perfect view,
Measured, still, and always new.
Then I heard the truth of you—
A leftover from joy once known,
A tip from a tree at Christmas grown,
Saved from waste,
A memory sown.
A couple cared, built walls to keep,
You rooted near their home so deep.
He left, and she remained—
A lonely woman, soft with pain.
She lived where I now rest my head,
And through her, you were gently fed.
Now here we are,
Together grown—
A quiet pair,
Rooted and known.
I’ve seen the pigeons in your arms,
Squirrels leap through leafy charms,
Spiders spin their silver thread
Between your limbs, where once you bled.
In spring, your scent would sweetly rise,
A song that lured the bees to fly.
In summer, shade for creeping ants,
For rats, and all the small that dance.
You gave with silence, deep and true—
No boast, just kindness flowing through.
In autumn, when the leaves gave way,
You stayed green—refused decay.
A lesson there, you gave to me:
To hold on,
When others flee.
And winter came with all its chill,
But still you stood, so bright, so still.
Birds found warmth within your grace,
Parrots whispered, tits gave chase—
They swung like bells upon your tips,
The cold wind kissing feathered lips.
You are always beautiful—
Always breath,
Memory,
And more.
Not just a tree
Outside my door—
But living story,
Root and core.
You are home.
