The Unclimbable Tree

 Do you remember that tree that never grew leaves? 

Behind the creek that doesn’t babble anymore, 

but just shivers as it whispers all of our names? 

That tree whose ancient bark implored us to explore? 

The one that was a living lightening rod, 

the Empire State Building of the forest, 

standing taller than the nearby mountains 

and held down by roots of resolute trust. 

The one we re-carved our names into every week, 

whose thin twisting branches stirred the vast, foaming clouds  

and swirled the paint that stained our custom-made sunsets  

that we all watched on the porch swing despite the crowd. 

It was the one tree we never ascended, 

all filled with bugs and the diseases they transmit, 

fragile towering branches and slippery moss, 

The Unclimbable Tree is what we called it. 

Do you all remember that summer day you left? 

When you climbed into that truck and they turned the key? 

Well, that day, right after I let you drive away, 

tears on my face, I climbed The Unclimbable Tree. 

Believe it or not, I reached the roof of our earth, 

I saw the sun melt blue droplets into the sky. 

But we were right all along, I fell in the mud, 

all scratched and bitten and bruised because I defied. 

Well I thought I should tell you I figured it out, 

that the cursed tree and its blessed branches are to blame, 

that unclimbable trees shouldn’t be climbed because  

that day none of us really came back the same.