The Maple Tree

The maple tree outside my window is much older than I.

How many years she has guarded our home

is a mystery that will never be solved.

A dress of ivy wraps her trunk in an embrace,

and her branches stretch toward the sky with dignity.

-

In the spring, she is born again as her branches bloom with new leaves.

Whenever a storm raged throughout an April night,

my sister and I would go out the next morning

and make mud pies from the rainwater

that one of her bowl-like roots collected.

-

In the summer, she protects the ground beneath from the blistering sun.

My sister and I sometimes had picnics underneath her wing,

and we liked to chant rhymes to the beat of a jump rope

in the shade she selflessly provided.

-

In the fall, her golden leaves are the last to sink to the damp earth.

My sister and I would sweep her leaves into piles

and leap into them with childish glee.

For hours on end, we would smell like the carcasses

of the leaves she refused to relinquish for so long.

-

In the winter, her bare branches span across the sky like the web of a spider.

After it snowed, we would put on layer upon layer of clothing before dashing outside

to play beneath what was left of her formerly voluminous canopy.

My sister and I once tried building a snowman with twigs

that had been stolen from her by Old Man Winter.

-

Those moments seem like they happened a lifetime ago.

My sister and I no longer make mud pies,

and the days of jump roping have been long gone.

I can't remember the last time I laid within a pile of fallen leaves.

Moreover, the excitement that comes with

playing in the snow has been missing for many years now.

-

Yet, she is still posted outside of my home.

When I look out my window,

her tender presence serves as

a reminder of memories from long ago.

Her ivy dress is as elegant as I remember,

and her branches continue reaching for the sky

every spring, summer, fall, and winter.