Stick This tree is not a tree. It is a stick, Planted in the ground. No leaves. Few branches. Broken in half.
This poor tree that is Not a tree Cries, Wishes, Prays, Dreams, Hopes to be like everyone else, Not broken, Not bare, Not pitiful, Not alone.
If I was tall, he says, And green And whole, I’d be the tallest Greenest, Most beautiful tree in the whole wide world. The others wouldn’t laugh anymore.
But I’m not. And they do.
That poor tree, who is Not a tree, Calls to the girl who sits and writes Near his pathetic self: Rip me from the ground! Take me home and burn me! I don’t want to suffer any longer.

She cannot hear him.