Thou wast but one of my loves—but never the meanest. I passed thee every day on my way to class and every day I thought while I looked on thee, “How selfless that tree is! Look how it holds its branches out above the heads of the passers by and is not offended that they take no notice.”
I noticed, Tree. When I left my meetings in Chapman, strolling out the front doors, I always caught sight of thee. At all seasons thou wast there, a solid fact on which to depend in the tumultuous chaos of an undergraduate education, a companion. We would exchange nods—No, I never said anything, but I loved thee.
And now, thou art disappeared.
When I walk the lonely road past Chapman, all the younger trees think they can compete for my affections. They think they can spruce themselves up and win me over. Those shallow, cloned saplings all in a row! I could never feel for them as I felt for thee, Tree!
Sometimes I pass the spot we used to make eyes at one another. I remember how you always inspired me to branch out. I would sit on a bench, gently shrouded by your shade, perhaps I read a book or took my fill in admiring thine shapely form, but in all things I was at peace, so long as you were there.
Now, at the same spot there is only a blank patch of dirt where the brick path once gave way to a mighty tree.
I admit that anger has taken root in my heart: What son of a birch took thee away? He’s really aspen for trouble. They never should’ve taken you down.
But I do my best not to be overcome. I have to move on. As the semester winds down and I move on to other things I am always, without doubt,
Pining for yew,