Old Man Maple
Is pushing a hundred, we think.
Each spring and fall, he gives his all.
Makes emerald hall,
Sighs with the whim of the wind.
To one who lays beneath his tower,
Awaiting his 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,
Me? I do the repairs
For next summer’s hammock time.