That maple tree, in glaze of
Came springing from a strange device:
A trick, concealing something big
Within a little whirligig
Of withered years' deceptive brown,
A wingnut that went swirling down
To land, inglorious, on the lawn,
Expecting to be trampled on.
It turns itself into the soil,
Thereafter, into something royal
That in a spring forever sweet
Threw golden flowers at my feet
So that I might remember, when
The tree and I would meet again:
King of the woods, a canopy
Where I would wed my prince-to-be.
This is a song for little things
That fall regardless of their wings,
That rise despite an early fall
To take delight in standing tall,
And now, whenever storms enfold
That height in diamonds of the cold,
The maple is a chandelier
To light our winter revels here.
© 2011 by Ellin Anderson. All rights
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.