THE TREE

There it stands, tall against the wind tossed clouds, shaded in reflective violets and yellows showing its loss of past branches and now stands with only one long limb outstretched against the moving clouds, and for it, time stands still as it hugs the ground with its roots deeply imbedded into the hard, dry earth. 
 

Why is it there?  Plain to see there’s nothing else on the hill except for a few shrub bushes.  Everything else is all down below.  All those houses clustered, packed in together as if there were no other place to be except squeezed into one big clump of brick after brick and stick after stick of wood.  As if that’s good.  “Playing like” they are houses.  “Playing like” there may be people inside. 
 

But no one comes out to look up the hill at The Tree.  If they did, maybe they’d pay attention to its long dangling rope that’s old and worn but will stay strong to hold – “if” they’d just take a seat. 
 

But they don’t; nothing happens.  So -- the rope dangles and waits – waits on “someone” to come -- to sit, grab hold of its ropes; fast move their feet and like a bird! Get lifted up!  Sky high into the breeze! 
 

All the while, looking down on all those red roof houses so cloistered together where no one is ever seen coming out to take a swing. 

The tossed about clouds float by and one can almost hear their collective sigh.