Old Man Maple
Is pushing a hundred, we think.
Each spring and fall, it gives its all.
Makes emerald hall,
Sighs with the whim of the wind.
To one who lays beneath its tower,
Awaiting its star’s communion,
Such things are shown!
Layers of focus, light on dark.
Rustles of sound.
An overture to the divine.
Such whimsy is despised by some,
Pointing to broken branches,
Dented roofs, clogged eaves,
I pay the money,
For next summer’s hammock time.