I Wouldn't Trade a Tree

At the corner of the yard,
Moss hangs off the skeleton of an oak tree
Like the long stringy hair of an elderly woman.
It doesn’t afford a shade in the summer,
And the winds of spring
And the snows of winter
Ravage limbs from its hollow body.
I know I should cut it down.
I curse its existence the morning after a storm
As I pick up its pieces off the lawn—
A betrayal of beauty and a crime of circumstance
Because I remember that tree in its glory,
When two young squirrels rested in its branches.