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WE’LL MISS YOUR PLACE
AGAINST THE SKY
Farewell High Lord of Toxteth
& environs,
whose only known command was:
“Up, up, up!” –– and whose
unflagging spirit sent its
scepter pointing, inching,
reaching, climbing heavenward
with the unfathomable optimism
of an arrow shot
toward something better
than the century of war
you witnessed, imperturbable
except in storms, lofty in
aspiration, evergreen in
disposition, your boughs lifted
us even as your pine combs
sent us running, trampoline
for a thousand generations
of grateful squirrels,
resting place for umpteen cranky
blue jays and nutty sparrows,
provider of modest shade,
our singular douglas fir
brought low by a common
fungus.
What a privilege
to have had your throne
in our yard.
April 2010