Anyone Sensing a Little Shel Silverstein??

Digging through stacks of papers has its advantages. For example, while cleansing my portfolio and binders I discovered papers that I wrote and plays I read years ago that I was utterly unaware were still in my possession. It's rather amazing really. Since I am in a sharing mood, I'd like to present you with one of my discoveries. Looking back, this piece strongly reminds me of The Giving Tree; except I didn't force my tree to  give me apples... Please enjoy :)

Palo Verde
*
There was a tree.
And I would hope to say that this tree was unlike any other; 
but in many ways it was the same
as any that stood 'round the block.
In the physical sense, 
it had branches and leaves,
a trunk and some roots to serve as anchors.
The bark grew green and strong
making the fragile twigs near the top look a color of life
even in the winters chill.
And in Springtime the tree would erupt
with bright yellow flowers 
that burst from their buds like miniature suns.
*
This was one tree among many that grew in the neighborhood.
It looked the same and served the same purpose.
But, if you examined it closely,
this tree was different.
It wasn't the largest or the smallest;
and it didn't carry the most buds
or have the most branches...
*
But this tree was mine.
And my tree was history.
*
My tree carried memories in its leaves
and the scars it bore on its branches and trunk 
were each a reminder of an other life.
The painful brown burns among its bright green flesh,
like battle wounds from brigades of old,
were little memories of the life it lived.
And the children in its branches: forever immortalized on its limbs.
*
Many days were spent among the branches of that tree;
climbing, twisting, reaching for new heights.
Club house meetings were held,
and oaths were sworn...
*
We shared our hearts, souls, and flesh with that tree.
All broken and mended within its branches.
*
When the tree pricked us, we pricked it back.
The thorns in our hands were our knives in that tree.
*
And hence forth, my green tree will grow on:
the influence it had on my childhood remembered always.
My great grandmother tree,
turns to others now I have left.
She picks them up 
and cradles them in her limbs;
living many years past
in hopes of all her children's return.
*
And though I may never return,
I know one thing for certain:
*
I loved that tree. 
And my tree loved me back.