A tree in all its forms, do I love–
living trees that give us air to breathe,
food that fills and nourishes,
and cooling, soothing shade.

But a tree’s life can go on,
once it’s been hewn,
for it can take many forms—
items grand or picayune.

The paper on which I write my letters—
the desk on which I write.

The violin on which I play “Greensleeves”,
the piano on which my mother plays.

The hope chest in which I place my linens and silver,
the hutch in which my grandmother’s Wedgwood china I place.

The cutting board on which I serve fruit and cheese,
the wooden spoon which, as a youngster, served me well.

The blocks of letters my son plays with to stack and learn,
the Scrabble letters I use to craft and play.

The puzzles my daughter puts together with learning hands,
the rocking horse and chair my husband put together.

A tree, like that of the human family’s,
dies not because its branches have broken,
but lives on as something of beauty.