At thirty feet,
testament to the first owner’s
exotic tastes,
it died this year,
trunk cracked and bug infested.
A few limbs leafed out
in late spring, withered yellow
then bare by mid July.

In its prime it offered shade well placed,
I’d watch
the boys play in its cool
embrace as I cooked meals.
Yet,
it’s not the respite from the sun,
the pink fuzz of summer
alive with butterflies
or
the seed pods shaken
like maracas in October
that I’ll miss,
but the way the leaves closed up
each night at sunset before it slept.

From The Grace of Light, Finishing Line Press, 2004.
Used here with the author’s permission.