Newman Baxter, One Who Loved A Tree

Sometimes I lay awake at night
thinking about Newman.
Newman Baxter,
One Who Loved A Tree.

Or so it says,
engraved deeply
into the back
of my favorite park bench.
Newman Baxter,
One Who Loved A Tree.

I run
my hands over the letters,
wondering
if there was a specific tree.
One perfect tree
that he'd had some grand love affair with.
One perfect tree
that had captured his heart.
One perfect tree
with strong extending branches
where his soul hung
like laundry out to dry,
waving back and forth
in the soft breeze.
Newman Baxter,
One Who Loved A Tree.

Or maybe it was all trees
that he loved.
Maybe it was the way
they looked
and smelled
and felt
beneath his hands,
above his head.
Maybe it was the way
they gave him comfort and strength
when he needed it most.
Maybe it was the way
their blossoms died
each winter
and were reborn
each spring.
Newman Baxter,
One Who Loved A Tree.

Or perhaps it was this tree
that was chopped down
and made into a bench
for young writers to sit
and ponder.
Perhaps it was this tree
that died like Newman,
that lives on like Newman,
with Newman,
sitting in the park
beneath new trees
and new tree lovers
that have come to take their place
in the grand scheme of things.
Perhaps this was their gift.
That tree
and
Newman Baxter,
One Who Loved A Tree.