Trees

We walked along the edge of the forest, the tree trimmer and I, on that crisp fall day, each pointing at limbs to be severed, ground areas to be cleared, pines to be thinned, before the winter set in. We agreed on the work to be done and parted ways. As I walked back along the tree lined driveway to the house, I was reminded of the poem by Joyce Kilmer that we learned in the sixth grade:

I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.

a tree that may in summer wear
a nest of robins in her hair.

While I didn't remember each particular stanza of the poem, I remember that we young girls penned our own version of the venerable poem:

I think that I shall never see
a boy that quite appeals to me.

A boy who doesn't always wear
a pound of grease upon his hair.

A boy who wears his shirttails in
and doesn't have a silly grin.

But boys were made for fools like me
and who on earth would date a tree.

With apologies to Ms. Kilmer.