As a tree, my mind saunters often.
I have not many things to do in this spot where I constantly stand,
Barring when the occasional winds come by,
I have the chance to observe what is behind the brick wall which I pose in front of.
There are more of my kind behind the wall,
Of which I will plausibly never meet.
I was born twenty four years ago,
For I only know that because my gardener told me.
He once defended me from a queer being,
Who I can only assume was threatening,
The way Mr. Gardener tugged at it,
The long thorny vines struggled to stay with me,
I thought it was my friend, for it spent months with me,
But It wasn’t until three months later Mr. Gardener told me,
It wasn’t my acquaintance,
For It wanted to kill me, extirpate me.
Perhaps I wanted it to be my friend,
For it is very desolate here,
Except when Mr. Gardener comes by,
And when the winds push me.
But Mr. Gardener hasn’t visited for months now,
Last time we conversed,
I was befuddled by his words.
His final words to me were,
“Thank you good friend,
For listening to me, get through this arduous hard time,
For it has concluded now,
And I will see you soon perhaps.”
I had no idea what he meant,
But he has did not return, “soon,”
But maybe he will come,
Someday back again,
To converse,
To engage, in private conversations,
To trade secrets,
Once again,
Like we used to.