My Tree

Some say, “That’s just a tree.”
I say, “That’s THE tree.”
I don’t like the word just.
Because my tree is not just any tree, it is MY tree.

That’s the tree I go to when I need someone wise.
That’s the tree I go to when I need someone strong and sturdy to lean on.
That’s the tree I go to when I have problems and I need to talk to someone who has the experience of the ages.
That’s the tree I go to when I need the soft companionship of a friend.

I don’t like the word just.

I go to my tree when I feel lonely.
I go to my tree when I need to see someone with a beautiful smile;
A smile so beautiful that age and wrinkly, grey bark cannot hide it.
I go to my tree when I need a hug; a rustling hug, welcoming me with open arms.

I don’t like the word just.

My tree is not too aloof to romp around in its fallen leafs like a small child.
When I need a friend who lets me sit in their arms for as long as I need to, I go to my tree.
When I need a friend who won’t judge me, no matter what I say or do, I go to my tree.

I don’t like the word just.