I thought I was so clever,
as I compared a twisted runt of a tree—
you may read that poem above—
to a gnarly witch in the burbs.
I was so proud, when I saw that older man
in his yard as I was walking my dog,
I told him of the poem, asked if he wanted a copy.
He gave me an unenthusiastic nod,
but indicated that was okay.
A few weeks went by and I did not see him.
I put the poem in his mailbox,
but did not see him at all on my later walks.
We went on a short trip
for a couple of weeks.
It was a bright, brisk Fall day
when Butter and I passed his house again.
I decided to knock on his door.
But as we moved close to his house,
I stopped and gasped.
Was I lost? No, no tree!
The witch has been cut down and I was sad.
When we walk by there now,
confronting the stark memory,
I mumble an apology to the dirt-covered hole.
Was it my poem that killed the tree?
Originally Published in Old Red Kimono