All things
are just things
until
something happens
that gives
the thing
mean-ing

That tree is not
my tree
but someone
had their first
kiss beneath it’s
boughs

That bench is not
my bench
but someone
slept there every day
for an hour after work
waiting for the city bus
(and missed it
every first time ’round)

This tree,
though,
is my tree
This bench,
my bench,

and I’d tell you why
but where’s the fun in that?