A bit ago I posted about the neighbors taking a limb off our oak tree Please understand that their reasons may have been sound: thin grass, obstructed view. Still I mourned and imagined that so too did the squirrel who napped there in the daytime. A gentle soul in Wales recently witnessed the destruction of a very old friend. Why do we mourn these entities, these mere plants? This Robert Frost poem doesn't answer the question, but it uses the interesting attachment we make to trees to good effect. Don't you think?
Tree at My Window
by Robert Lee Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.