To catch the sun, you lay a trap
of steel in dark of deadly night.
Add some bait, perhaps a scrap
of lightning from a stormy flight;
as she mounts horizon’s hill,
the sun will spy allurement there,
cunningly, of her free will,
she’ll glow with joy and trip the snare.
They planted Tree the year she bore baby Jim;
Now when they see it, they think of him –
His quiet ways, his shy boyhood smile,
His fresh-scrubbed face when he walked down the aisle.
Tree has survived the worst of the past;
Lightning’s wild strikes, tornado’s fierce blasts.
Now Jim is gone, his sacrifice through;
Tree lost its soul when they got the news.
Twisted and gaunt, it stands on the hill
Waiting for Jim; it is waiting there still…