And what is the maple doing
now that darkness has covered it
with a black shawl better used
for a Prussian funeral? It wants solitude
over homeopathy. No hands around the trunk
like a pat-down search and please
don’t disturb the roots and fondle
Let it shade for those
who want shade. Let it moss its limbs
and grow sword ferns. Shadows are its own
private business with the sun.
It doesn’t stand
for sorrow. It is a chapel unto itself.
Winds hum through its leaves like sermons.
And when day arrives,
the tree will see the axe
and think Not to worry.
The handle is one of us.