There's a tree outside
whose bark's tough hide
has seen winter whither lesser trees,
summers parch lesser beings,
and the spoiled crabgrass scream,
but the tree has outlived these misgivings
to bear the brunt and toil,
see both beautiful and soiled,
and relay these lessons, these morals
to give its branches more
than Spring's shining store.

And here it stands
in the wide expanse
with its branching reaching far
to be just like the tree.
And if the tree could know
the effect of its hold,
of the nutrients sowed,
its long embrace and let go
for the branches to thrive solo
shaking off the misery and cold
and exploding with beautiful leaves of its own.
Well, let's hope the tree has always known.

And the branches' leaves will shed
from the burgundy to red
and whisper until the ground
that it learned a thing or two.
Age will cultivate
as rainfall alleviates
the circle of leaf, life, limb, and fate.
For the branches will grow
singing to and fro
to the tree whistling in the wind.

There's a tree outside
whose bark's tough hide
mirror the roots that run so deep.
There's a tree outside
of heart and life
whose trunk will never cease to be.
And this tree outside -
despite the shifts in time
and different street name signs -
will forever be ours to keep.
And forever ours to see.