The Tree by the Lake

I was never granted a mirror, 

Instead, I own a puddle of tears, reflecting my lean, emerald figure, 

In the winter, I shed. 

One crisp leaf after the other.

The little boats set sail, 

Every evening the same little girl leans on my smooth trunk,

With two neat plaits, and a book in hand, 

We read together.

It sounds peculiar, a tree reading paper, 

But I have lived a thousand lives. 

Some days, my friend perches herself on my branches and kicks off her polished shoes,

She swims in the lake during summer, 

Makes a trampoline of my leaves in the Autumn, 

But never once has she missed our reading session, 

Not even when she had the flu!

One day, I notice her hair begins to gray in those same two plaits,

She leans a bouquet full of peonies, roses and lilies against my trunk, 

And for the very first time, our silence is broken,

‘I will miss you my dear friend.’