The elm began it,
because it was easy to climb.
Branch touched bole so gently
and old leaves cushioned the depression
that made a perfect perch.

When Mother and Grandmother agreed
that too much reading rotted a young child’s brain.
I could sneak away sometimes
with a book from the stacks in the front room.
Walk past canes and shrubs
hung with red berries. Past chickens
scrabbling in the hedges all around.

I climbed wire fence until I reached first branch
of the last elm in a row of elms by the meadow.
Greenery hid me all afternoon
and there was a feeling of complicity
between me and the tree.
I was sure it welcomed me, perhaps arranged
its foliage to seclude this branch more carefully.

Through the years trees nourished a need,
thick mat of old leaf, crisp or softly moist,
at the root gave hours of comfort.
Touch of leaf or pine needle
brings peace that has no equal.
I saw the elm not long ago,
now ragged in its profile,
missing branches, looking tired
or so I thought. In my mind
it still is young and leafy,
with stories from my books
stored in its deepest wood.