The Rings of a Climbing Tree
An oak stands tall.
Still growing beside the road.
The telephone pole and lines cut deep
through its canopy of green,
yet its beauty—they cannot take.
The yellow and red fire hydrant stands guard below,
in case the lightning tries to take it in,
to burn its green to brown.
The climbing tree of my childhood memories.
Those voices still echo—
the grunts as we hoist ourselves up,
barefoot climbs like monkeys, branch to branch.
Who can go higher?
Who can reach out further?
Oh, the adrenaline rush when
the branch bends, the leaves quiver—
Will I fall?
If I do, will I catch the branch below?
Oh, the looks, the smiles, the temptations!
Barefoot, branch to branch.
That smell of oak, of summer heat,
and the cool air between the leaves.
It’s a wonder we didn’t plummet to the
ground beneath,
climbing around those limbs.
Though how we avoided the lines,
I don’t know.
All I remember is—after the adventures
were done—
exhausted upon her arms.
The sturdy oak, our third playmate,
took a rest and sighed.
Brother and sister, sitting side by side,
feet dangling over the edge
of her branch stretching over the sleepy road, centuries ago.
Upon the hillside, surveying past our neighbors’ houses and fields—
sweaty, sharing stories, making up tales,
spinning grand plans for our futures.
Our climbing tree, all the while knowing—someday,
we’d be shadows in her shade.
She waited for us every day after school,
for our play.
Not stopping until dark—
hiding birds, fireflies, tree frogs, and the like.
Summer, giggles, and drops of sweat—
she knew—tickled her bark the most.
Then it came.
We became shadows—
years, decades—
but she had held our stories in her rings.
And now, the shadows aren’t just shadows anymore.
The summer and laughter from my brother and me,
reminiscing about our golden days—
tickle her bark yet again.
I swear, I see her smile as she sways on those days.
The yellow and red fire hydrant still stands guard,
in case the lightning tries to burn the memories from her rings.
The Rings of a Climbing Tree.
Lira Wren
© 2025 SwAY HEYven by Lira Wren. All words, stories, and designs are original creations. Please do not reproduce without permission—art lives in sharing, not stealing. 🌿
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