'Childhood Trees Are Taller,' says University of South Florida poet Alex Rivera

This was a fascinating prompt, and it made me think about all the trees in my life. But one tree stood out the most despite it being so far back in my childhood.

Maybe it’s because it was the first tree I got to know. But I remember my friend and I would hang under this tree in his backyard after school every day. He loved catching lizards and climbing the tree.

I eventually would climb the tree too after seeing him climb and fall and climb and fall over and over. Part of me wishes I could go back and climb this tree again. I yearn for a simpler time with less bills and more tree climbing.

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Childhood Trees Are Taller
By Alex Rivera

I don’t climb trees anymore
now that I wake up at dawn
and ignore the sun. My mornings
filled with keystrokes and coffee
teeth. The blinds are closed
but I’m drowning in a flood
of emails and unread messages.

There used to be a tree next
to a house of bees. Don’t ask
me what kind of tree this was.
In my memory, it was sharp,
naked branches scraping against
a ceiling of sky.

After school, I’d sit in the dirt
with my best friend looking for lizards
before dinner. He’d leap into cracked
branches when I wasn’t watching,
his hands reaching for the unseen
then falling to the buzz of bees.

Face covered in earth, a gap in his teeth,
he’d turn to me, point to the tree,
and I would commune
with the sky for seconds
before the sun left
and the flashing red radio tower
told me to go home.

I don’t climb trees anymore.
I’m so scared of falling.

For National Poetry Month, Creative Loafing Tampa Bay asked Dennis Amadeus, who leads The GrowHouse Collective based in Ybor City, Florida, to help us reach unsung poets. We asked them to write about trees—any trees—and they responded.

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