A Golden Friendship

     My good friend lay cut down in his prime.  Ours had been a quick, strong bond.  Our friendship grew during backyard visits.  In our secret garden, behind our home, he joined our family.  The girls played nearby in their playhouse beneath the honeysuckle.  We swung in the moonlight and listened to the babbling pond.

     After my Pop died, he listened to my heartbreak.  Gently consoling me, as he whispered encouragement, his voice soft and papery.  As I rocked in the swing, he often touched my cheek or caressed the back of my head. Beneath his vast canopy, our daughters collected fairy dust amid the columbine and vinca vine.  A quiet giant comforted largely, as birds and butterflies alighted upon him.  His golden autumn leaves hid the migrating yellow finches.

     Mindless cruelty ravaged my friend.  Instead of lightly trimming a branch to aide their television reception, our neighbor split the tree in half.  The stately three-trunk white birch, which had graced our lives, stood sentry outside our love nest and protected our small backyard sanctuary, died.  I cherish our friendship especially in fall when the leaves turn gold.  A friend who still lives near our old home says the yellow finch now visits her yard.