Any Other Tree

It’s a tree.

And, if you were just walking by,

It could be any other tree

In that, or any other patch of woods.

Look closer though,

And you might notice  

The blackened, scorched bark

Around the base of the trunk.

Almost impossible to imagine now,

On this wet and misty day,

Are the flames leaping and spreading,

Catching and incinerating the summer-dry ferns,

But not this stalwart survivor of a cedar.

The neighbors stood, watched, waited,

For the fire trucks.

But this tree holds memories

Even before then.

See the two decaying stumps

Once attached by planks painted green.

A bench stood in front of this tree,

And children sat with backpacks,

Swinging their legs and school-new-shoes,

Until the bus came and mommy said bye.

And even before then,

A stop on a summer expedition.

Small hands pull at strips of bark

Long and short,

But only a few from each tree.

They soak in water

To soften for making clothing

‘Cause the Indians did it!

But no one contemplated exactly how.

We just knew it could be done,

And we’d do it.

But now, walking by,

More moments made into mere memories.

Those times have gone away

And there is no cedar bark clothing to show for it.

The fire is put out, and the bench has rotted,

The bus stop has moved, and new children wait down the road.

And when I am gone,

Only the tree will remember.

And maybe, just maybe,

Someone else will walk by

And wonder

About the stumps and scorch marks,

And know that this is not just

Any other tree.