The Robin and the Tree

There are a couple of different significances in symbolism here: 1) Imagine the tree to be someone very old. 2) Consider the environmental perspective.

A tree shudders on the hill all alone.

A little robin flying by notices its moan,

“What is the matter, dearest tree?”

“Well,” the tree begins solemnly,

“I have a bad feeling in my bark.

Something is going to happen on tomorrow’s mark.”

The robin laughs and flutters its wings.

“The sun shines bright and the cloud sings,

but you are here moping around.

It must be because you’re stuck to the ground.”

The tree furrows its brow and sighs.

“I have never moved, but I do not feel tied.

I treasure this hill with all my height

and wouldn’t trade it for another sight.”

The robin tilts its strawberry head

and reflects on what the tree just said.

“It seems I cannot truly relate

as a nomadic traveler moving each date.

But come now, cheer up, everything’s fine.

It’s only the wind running past your spine.

Nothing will happen, you’re terribly tall,

and every predator here compares too small.”

The tree restlessly shifts some leaves,

unconvinced of what the robin perceives.

“I have seen many things in my time,

the birth of flowers, the insects that climb,

the new litter of critters that played and rolled,

pouncing up this hill young and leaving old.

All view the sunset above my throne,

and fall asleep with the rustle of my bone.

I have watched over soil of friends gone,

who sleep away in their graves on my lawn.

I have sheltered the smallest during storm,

when seasons freeze over or flare too warm.

I have loved all in terror and pride,

seen history live and how it slowly died.”

They both stand in silence, the robin enthralled,

thinking the words carefully over and then called,

“Dear tree, what you say is somehow grim.

The day seemed quite light, now it seems dim.

It's not merely your words, but in your sigh.

We must understand your intuition can lie.”

The tree shakes its head with defeated gaze,

while the robin blames it on the heat of rays.

Then they each bid the other a good day;

the robin has a nest to build and flies away.

The tree looks on as the red spec fades

and lowers its eyes to the soft, grassy blades.

The next day the robin travels whistling,

come to inform the tree of its new offspring.

“Tree, tree, I have much to chirp and tell,

about two little girls and one boy as well,”

but as it draws closer it stops mid-air;

a large black object noisily moves there.

As it finally wheels away, the robin starts to cry,

seeing nothing but a stump under a grey sky.

The leaves are on the ground, mostly torn;

there’s a broken branch, peeled and worn.

The hill is empty and lonely as could be,

missing the wholesome presence of the tree.

The robin perches in tears closeby.

“Of course, you were always wiser than I.”