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I wrote this prose poem with an experimental structure. It doesn't follow a traditional prose poem format, which allows it to read the way a short story might be read. It also doesn't follow the structure of a short story, which allows it to read the way a prose pome might be read. Either way, I think of it as a prose poem.
How the Tree Stood Tall
As a boy, I was often reminded that every person has a name. “Will their name become who they are?” was the question that followed most reminders. Papa was a man with a name; by that name he became strong as a Longleaf Pine. He was a tough man, but he was a courteous one, too. I saw Pap’s courtesy often when we’d stop by the country store to buy feed. He’d offer a 2-second handshake and a 3-second chat to one of the local farmers. Five seconds is all he had time to give. On the farm there’s just enough sunshine in a day for work, never enough to chat long.
Did I mention I was there when the Longleaf Pine was cut down? The day before, Papa and I spent our hours of sunshine scattering seed along freshly tilled rows. Just the pine tree and me, we scattered the seed and toiled. That evening, I rested upon the field’s fresh-cut grass for I know the sowing season well. The following day we’d labor just the same.
I’ll never forget the day the Longleaf Pine was chopped down. Papa awoke that morning shivering. His trunk was losing its bark and no longleaf needles were left to cover his branches. I went to speak with him later that morning. He had become motionless, stiff as a pine stud. Without words, he spoke clearly to me. A subtle nod, chased by a wink, voiced he wanted me to enjoy the day, to go out and fill it with adventure and cheer. I did just that.
The Longleaf Pine’s demise was near. Over the hill, along the creek’s side I played. It was crawdad season. I poked at their holes with a stick, perforating the creek’s bank. Squinting from the sun’s reflection, I searched for the peculiar creatures along the water’s edge, but not too long. This day, time spent by the water’s edge was short.
My walk home was preparation for the thievery of time.
It was too late when I reached the top of the hill; the lumberjacks had already arrived. Each of them wore blue jeans. Navy blue suspenders lay across their broad shoulders, and each man was swathed with burgundy and black flannel shirts. In their right hands each carried a double head axe, in their left hands each carried a bare pine branch. Other than those few loose branches, the Longleaf Pine was nowhere to be found. Pap’s was gone.
That afternoon, while I poked sticks at crawdads, the last Longleaf Pine on the farm was cut away. Taken from a land where his roots separated the soil for nearly a century. Proud, strong, oh how that Longleaf Pine stood tall!
Yes, I was there the day the Longleaf Pine was cut away.
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