A Walk

Come walk with me this final mile, and grant to me a parting whim. We shan't go deep into the woods, or stroll the main street in the town. Let us pass by the fevered pace, and seek a secret, silent place. We pass a church that watches us, to judge the path we travel on. We hear the sound of childhood play, still unaware that suns go down. I tip my hat and pass the school, and all its bygone mystery. My destination is a place, where hides remote a simple tree. So few go there the grass is thick across a field that mutes the sounds. And why you ask do we go here, so far removed, the lawn unkempt? I stoop to find an acorn nut, and place it gently in your hand, and answer then. This is a tree I planted many years ago, from just an acorn's tiny seed. When I pass through that final door, it's up to you to plant the trees. ~~~~~ Dedicated to the many trees I planted wherever I went. But the poem is about more than trees.