Tree
Spring greens
the old maple.
Four, twenty fingered hands
cannot touch tips around it’s girth.
Six and thirty could
maybe, full circle
hidden age rings
beneath the mottled bark.
How thin or plumped
these years
when tree thirsted,
or sated, drank
ground juices
of seasons whet?
Spring greens
as I porch sit
watching
in wonder.
©grapher June 1 2014
