The tree-house in the Florida oak
By the meandering crocodile creek
Sits still and quiet, garbed in Spanish moss
Not fully cognizant of its loss.

Grandpa built it of old green boards
For my three boys to play
And excited little voices braved snakes and spiders
As in it they forever seemed to stay.

But Time stopped like halting tin soldiers in the ranks
Yet the creek-water still rushed and wore along its banks
Just as like the grandsons grew as they say “like weeds”
To six feet tall, moving on to cars and dating and other deeds.

01/06/2009

Posted on 01/06/2009
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