Little Girl

I was here before you.
I saw your mother bring you home.
You were so small then.
I was small too.

Your mother brought me home too,
She left me in my place
and there I have stayed.

You grew quickly,
soon you walked,
and soon you ran
around me, with the wind flying through your hair.

When you grew big enough
your mother put a swing on me,
and you swung from my branches
every day without fail, leaving your peppermint scent behind.

Your mother told you I was special,
so you brought little gifts for me
and cared for me.
I wished I could tell you how much I loved you.

You continued to grow older,
you soon brought friends home to me.
They laughed at you,
and told you that trees aren't special.

Visits from you are less frequent.
You hardly ever swing from your swing.
Even though I could hold you.

You have been here for sixteen years now.
I have been here for seventeen.
You have started visiting me more.
You seem so sad...

Little girl,
why did you do that?
I wanted you to swing from my branches again,
but not like that.

I thought that if I was here
you would be happy.
I suppose though I could do nothing,

but I will always be your tree.