The giving tree
does not worry
about the sunlight and time it took
to grow her leaves.
She does not care
that she may be chilly in the winter
when she drips away her sappy antifreeze
for bowstrings and syrup.
She does not fret
as her legs are covered in concrete
like a Han Solo recipe for quick cryogenics.
Her skin is stained
with the carvings of teenage lovers.
She does not hide her scars in shame;
the wood beneath her blemished bark is still strong.
Her arms are tied with power lines
and splinter every time there is a power outage.
Her back is bent to breaking with
the remains of an antiquated treehouse,
weighing on her oaken frame.
She would not trade it for the world.