Standing stately many summers rooted to this spot.

Children nipping at my bark; scratching at my knot.

Limbs shaking at climbing britches that still itches.

Tattooed with arrows with love: hit with hard pitches.

Little lads teething, and waddling to stand with crooked backs.

Little lasses playing tag; counting to twenty.

How many times I can’t count; must have been plenty.