My peach tree died over a year ago,
It never bore fruit and it died slow.
If not from the incessant pruner's saw,
Then from the roots of the privet's yaw.
"Give it iron. Tell it lies." a friend said.
"Pound it full of rusty nails and it will produce before it dies."
He told me lies as she withered and died before my eyes.
And didn't awaken to see the Spring.
"Can I cut that down for ya," they say.
I brush them off with, "Maybe some other day."
So I sit and watch her fail.
Branches drooping and full of scale.
She still provides a perfect perch,
For the mockingbird's hunting lurch.
As he swoops down on his prey,
Another bug, another meal, another day.
A playground for cats and the occasional squirrel.
All game to try its rickety whirl.
And when she's finally down and rotted away.
I'll still dream of the possum that held sway.
In its branches for a week, night and day.
Driving Jazz near crazy.
Until, like the possum, she is gone,
And the sun shines, once again, on my Summer lawn.
Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull