When I was twenty-three I bought a white ash tree.

I said to myself I’ll grow this tree

so tall that the whole world will see.

As its long lushes leaves 

reach above Heaven’s eaves.

I took that baby tree and rolled up my sleeves

and I planted that tree into the ground with a mothers’ love.

As it began to grow I would hear a morning dove

sing their gentle lullaby to the tree.

That’s when I knew I’d take my kids to this tree

It’s where they would play and be free.

But as the years went by and the tree grew I felt myself alone

yet the tree still went higher until it was full-grown. 

Still I was burdened by the emptiness of being alone

The quiet crept into every crack and crevice

Leaving me saddened by the lack of a person’s essence, a thing so precious.

As the young dove no longer resided on the tree it had flown off and into the unknown.

It most likely found a partner and had kids, a long fulfilling life not on its own.

Time passed and I grew bitter towards the tree who aged with me with wrinkles in its side.

My anger only built up and I winced, maybe I never tried.

Yet a part of me always blamed the tree

it always felt so above me.

So I hauled out my ax and in one fell swoop the tree came to its knees.

It tumbled with such a mighty crash that I saw my life in a flash.

All that was left was the stump, old and worn like me, the poor white ash.

I layed there will the stump as the heavens and sky cried,

weeping for the poor tree who unjustifiably died.

There I sat till I turned to bones and bones to stones.

Until another person came and planted a tree

so I would never be alone, forever the tree and me.