A Good Friend Poem by Kean Ghiero

They made a beautiful
straight solid beam
of his trunk that grew
white flowers in spring.

His red stony fruits
ripe in summer, to nibble,
were cherries that
made mouths dribble.

His curved ramifications
I used as a cantle, which
sprout summer leaves
as a soft textile mantle.

By the side of my house,
he stood in the garden,
since I was a child
I saw him there as a warden.

I had learned to climb him,
to sit on his branches,
until a fatal day
came without any hunches.

Dismayed I witnessed him,
sawn down and cut.
I felt like crying for
that punch in the gut.

I lost my dear friend
not knowing what to say.
I grew up recalling
my friend lost that day.

My father had him cut
and that was a smack
but worse was to pile
all those logs in a stack.