your face is scarred with the marks of an axe.

your body, now small, but your roots still tough.

you're the perfect seat in an open field,

a short brown stack in a sea of green and yellow.

you're my favorite stump.

i remember a time, not too long ago,

when you were my favorite tree.

you had the best shade in town,

and your branches were my favorite swings.

you were my favorite home, my favorite escape.

you could make the birds sing,

the only radio i would ever need.

i had always hoped you'd teach me of love,

like you did for Jack and Jill,

but i guess that day will never come,

now that your branches are forever still.

i could sit at your base for years,

writing poems such as these,

with your sway as my inspiration,

and sunlight that slipped through your leaves.

but once you became my favorite seat,

nothing seems quite the same.

the dandelions don't work for me,

can't hide me from the rain,

my pages get wet,

and the ink begins to run.

the lumberman came and took you away,

i guess my childhood is good and done.