My Liquid Amber Tree

The tree in the backyard of the house in front
of mine, who has seen more than 20 summers,
has been passed from owner to owner, through
generations, but I have always thought of it as
MY liquid amber tree. With leaves as dense and
green as a forest packed into one being, is this tree,
every summertime. A flaming ruby-fountain, a raging fire, seen through
my window, as dad complains of leaves and nuts in autumn. It becomes
a sparkling ocean in the dew, dying my bedroom green. With branches
twisted like a dancer, frozen as she twirled her last
pirouette. It was sold to people who knew not the meaning of
this tree, who knew not the happy childhoods grown up in their
kindly neighbour’s backyard, believing the tree would always be theirs
by all but law, never dreaming their neighbour would
sell. They knew not fully the tree who had watched us children grow. These
new, other neighbours were ready to hack at its branches, could not hear it
howl like a wolf, hurt in the hunt, when it sways in the wind, a sound never there,
or heard, before. They knew not that a girl watched from her bedroom window,
with tears in her eyes at the thought her tree would be gone. It was then she realised
it would be her liquid amber tree no more.