This time he was not there -
the old tree that always stood at attention,
like a guard at the door to my house.

His worn leathery trunk
weather-beaten life
wrinkled rough upright shabby,
withered branch like a rifle,
turban of leafy flowers,
rugged boots on feet,
creaking, but full of vigorous courage

In sun in rain
in rain in cold
untiringly alert
in khaki fatigues

He'd accost from afar, "Who goes there?"
"A friend," I'd answer
and sit down for a moment
under his benign shade.

In fact, there always lurked in our ways
the mortal fear of some common foe -
the house had to be saved from thieves
the city from plunderers
the nation from its enemies

had to be saved -

river from becoming drain
air from becoming smoke
food from becoming poison

jungles from becoming deserts
humans from becoming jungles.