Silver Maple

Psalm 92: "They that are planted in the house of the LORD shall bear fruit even in old age."

Old men should get to know a tree.
It may be time, you know,
before the lime is thrown
and body turns to loam in which roots claw.
Such is the law.

In my case, it would be
the silver maple arching over me
from my old neighbor’s place.
I labor each November to save face,
to rake each leaf that drops,
one by a thousand, from its gnarly arms.
The tickling slomo quilt fluffs down with charm
like that my mother tossed above my bed
and patted round my tousled head.

For forty years I’ve raked and raked
for that tree’s sake.
The shade that compensates
me in July makes like a puddle drying
one atom at a time
in autumn’s cooler light.
In March I can assess
the morning sunrise bouncing off the sea
because my tree (as I now think of thee)
is naked and allows the dawn to pass.

In forty years of neighboring, I have not said
a hundred words
to him or heard as many in return.
We pass and wave like dotard comrades,
making like we fought once side by side.
I know his name.
Does he know mine?
Too late, the chance to ask has long since passed.

But then I did not know until last June
what kind of tree it is of his
that towers over me
each morning when I look to see
the light enthroned upon the sea.

Then two young men appeared
like children playing pirates on a jungle gym,
swinging in its angles, bough to bough,
while tree saws dangled sword-like from their belts.
I glanced and asked its name.
One took a stance and shouted: silver maple.
And so, my knowledge of this world advanced.