The tree hugger

Old Man Maple

Is pushing a hundred, we think.

Each spring and fall, it gives its all.

Makes emerald hall,

Speckled sun.

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,

Upset neighbors.

I pay the money,

And wait

For next summer’s hammock time.


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