Promises, promises,
made by a tree.
"Promise, promise,
remember me

Tell my story
when I am gone.
Think of me,
when I move on.

Perhaps, perhaps,
I am being deceived,
will you remember me
when I leave?"

And so, and so, 
the tree replies,
"look at my leaves,
they stretch to the skies."
"Why would one as lofty as I
look at you,
and tell a lie?"

And so, and so,
the children believe,
they carve their names,
they grow,
they leave.

And someday far,
or someday soon,
a very old tree,
with leaves all strewn, 

In the hours close to dark
will feel a brush against their bark
If they will look then they shall see
a child's eyes,
wild and free

And somewhere in them,
the old ghost
Of a name that served
as a sign-post

To a past, dear and near,
and a future,
one that's bright and clear,
Silently watches from the tree
feeling, indeed, a shock of glee.

For who would have thought,
and who would have known,
that to those who have gone,
and those who have grown,
this gnarled old tree,
would become home.