A PUNISHMENT TO FIT THE CRIME

I don't remember which of us
started it. But suddenly we were
at it, bashing the slender trunk
of the sapling with softball bats,
reaching up and snapping off its
tender limbs. Finished at last,
exhausted, we fell to the ground
with gleeful grunts. A shadow
loomed over our ten-year-old bodies.
    Come inside. Now

Mrs. Loechner marched us like
prisoners of war into the one-
room school and made the three
of us stand attention at her desk.

    I've written on the board a poem
    you boys will memorize.

Her quiet voice filled the silent room.
Thirty pairs of ears caught every
word. She told us that John Keys,
the donor of the tree would one
day soon appear to hear apology
from these "miscreants"
whose "maliciousness" had trashed
his gift, that "these three" would
recite to him in chorus
the famous poet's verse.

More than half a century has passed.
I have not forgot a word of it.

    I think that I will never see
    a poem as lovely as a tree.

That's just for starters.
Here's the ending.

    Poems are made by fools like me
    But only God can make a tree.

I can recite the whole thing.
Trust me.