One Treehouse

Saturday morning freshness and the tree
Were in silent bright communion, sometimes met
My friend and my father and me.
We just had breakfast, we were Adams who’d see.
Wet grass held universes and wings,
And we’d make our way to the oak, and climb.
The wind had grown subtle fruit, shedding time.
The moist bark, rugged bough, creaking floor,
The bicycle having its pebbled ways,
And the slanted fences quietness wore
All met mystic in the treehouse those days.
One treehouse, one father, and that one friend!
The treehouse had a broken plank; bugs crawled.
My father’s cruelties had me angry, appalled,
Scarred, and the friend hurt me in the end.
But each stands alone: I don’t measure,
Compare, as I’d destroy the treasure.
There may be better, whatever better be,
And that may amply feed the intellect,
But love and imperfections intersect.

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