A rhymed poem about my empathizing with my backyard ash tree.

Rusty and I come outside past midnight
for his walk to find a light mist falling.
The mid-August, parched-brown lawn might
revive some from this rain. An owl is calling!

This draws my attention to my backyard tree,
a forty-year-old ash that’s had a hard existence.
Faster-growing Chinese tallow trees, three
in number, surrounded it early on. Its persistence

allowed it to survive, only stunted in growth,
being out-competed and in constant shade.
Ten years back an arborist gave his oath,
once the tallows went, the ash would upgrade.

Despite a growth spurt, it has remained sickly,
with curled and spotted leaves year after year.
This spring, when new leaves emerged thickly,
one major branch remained leafless and austere.

The arborist pruned away its lifeless limbs.
The ash stands lopsided but green throughout.
Hundred-degree summer heat’s brutal whims
hit the ash hard with torrid days and drought.

My poor, sickly, old ash, I fear you will die
from amputation by degrees. You must survive!
As I grow older and frailer, I appreciate the try
to hold onto life. Let’s both fight to stay alive.