Elm

by David Holzel

I planted an elm seedling, two feet high at most, hugged it to the school wall so we wouldn’t trample it playing soccer. In a city whose elms had all died away, mine was safe. And blossoming perennially, it would surely survive its planter. But man is more like a tree in the field than I knew. Our 31st annual reunion: a stump like a milking stool. For me, still summer.

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David Holzel does his writing in Maryland. You can read him here and here. He wonders if he's really going to follow David Hasselhoff on the list of authors.