The elms of my youth
might be gone,
but those firs we planted are living,
or so I’m told by old friends.
The pines an uncle helped me plant,
even the one that was struck by lightning
on its very first day planted in the earth,
bam, like a spank on a newborn’s bottom.
That one is the tallest, no sign of early scars.
There’s a lesson there, I’m sure,
and maybe I’ll get it one day.
