Cenotaph for Sanity

Alas, poor Tree I knew him well. Full branched, handsome, sweet fir-coned, he stood forty years tall. He was home to nesting songbirds and street-wise squirrels. He offered shade, cool shade, on a sun drenched day and oh, to catch his scent upon the wind was to sigh for. Yet, one day, the man-across-the-street who plays piano chopped him down; and, upon his stump, the man-across-the-street who loves to garden placed a pretty pot of pink petunias adorned by a plastic winged ornament with a long black beak.

I cry for Tree and Songbird and Squirrel. I cry for Wind and Sun and Me.