From pen to paper: Submissions from student literary artists

The tree is old.  Anyone looking at him can tell that he's near ancient, growing and surviving throughout the years.  It was tough in the beginning, being just a sapling and of no appeal to anyone.  As the years wore on, however, he grew stronger, sturdier, and much, much older, and the old tree became a source of comfort for those passing him by.  He has seen much.  He has a story to tell – a million stories, in fact, all gathered and stored from the conversations of the many students seeking refuge under his sheltering, shady branches.  Silently, he listens.  Silently, he watches.  Silent and strong, he offers a haven, all the while collecting stories for the winter.

    The winters are harsh for the old tree.  His knobby limbs go bare and cold, reaching for any warmth at all.  He can find none.  The warmth of the sun, as well at the warmth of companionship, is gone, only to return with the change of the season.  He must do without the laughing, friendly voices, and the warm caresses of the hands of children, and the gentle, comforting pressure of backs leaning against him.  He must only watch the students who once sought comfort under the shelter of his arms scurry along through the snow and slush, barely acknowledging his existence.  He is not unloved, merely forgotten.  So the old tree waits patient and silent, watching and hoping, replaying stories that remind him of the spring.

    In the spring, they will come.  In the spring, they will sit beneath his sturdy, leafy boughs, and they will tell their stories, and the old tree will just listen.  He will listen and collect for the next winter, so that, even when no one can take refuge in him, he can take refuge in himself, forever listening to the stories of spring.