The Old Maple

The Old Maple


Chilled
under the first
dusting of snow.
The old maple,
gnarled, naked,
emaciated limbs
(a crone)
reaches skyward,
grieving
the death of summer.

Short months past
billowing sleeves
of red and gold
(before that shades of green)
waved
in jubilation --
young girls dancing.

Her canopy
screened lovers
from burning sun,
prying moon.

(She didn't tell a soul.)

Still,
the lovers come
to relive precious moments,
hear crunching leaves,
inhale damp earthy smells of decay,
hold hands,
embrace in heavy winter garments,
kiss cool cheeks,
savor the scent of fresh air
on chilled skin.

I embrace her
for the last time this year.
She settles in,
patiently awaiting the buds of spring.
For now,
I say goodbye.
I will return with the leaves.
She will be here
waiting.