LOSS

 

A tree came down in my front yard,

I’d never noticed it ‘til now,

Its rugged trunk, its ragged bough

Had kept the sun from shining hard.

It was this tree diffused the light,

Its limbs selecting out which beams

Should enter, in bright-ribbon streams,

Our fronted rooms, to light them right.

It served its purpose quietly –

Living, I never gave it aught

Except indifference, never thought,

But dying, made its mark on me.

 

 

This is a sketch of my son, Chip, age about 6.