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MAPLE
I planted a maple.
She was a youngling,
And not at all happy,
With her new post,
She brooded,
And stretched her limbs,
Pointy to heaven,
Like curled talons,
Clawing the sky,
“Why Oh Why!
Have I been planted here?”
She cried,
All the while flaunting her majesty,
With over-ripened enormous leaves,
Dark evergreen in color,
Leathery and thick,
Full of sugar,
As if to show off,
Her ability to draw life from the ground,
Or in her case,
Servitude from the ground,
And her leaves were not placed rhythmically,
Or whimsically,
But were sewn-in,
Around her slender girth,
Like a matron’s uniform,
Tightly overlapping,
Like shingles on a roof,
So as not to let any light through,
Making the over-shaded ground beneath her,
The perfect place for mould,
And mushrooms to grow,
And in the Fall,
She refused to turn any other colour,
Than a blotchy, muddy brown,
And only dropped her brittle, crumpled leaves,
After all the other trees,
Had lost theirs,
And after all the other trees,
Had fallen asleep,
Then and only then,
Did she yield her spoiled booty,
To the winter winds,
So that when her leaves fell to the ground,
The other trees,
Couldn’t make fun of her commonness,
And nakedness,
And so that her leaves,
Would not mingle with the others,
In their ordinariness.
She balked at the thought,
Of becoming like them.
As her leaves dropped,
One by one,
And as she became exposed,
I saw that her hands were frozen,
Eerily shaped like the prongs of death,
A sight I’d rather not see,
Rather not have in my yard,
So in the winter,
I looked away,
And in the summer,
I tolerated her,
I’d rather admire,
The soft silver limbs,
Of the birches,
And the arches of the willows,
And the roundness of the cedars,
Than her pouting gush of limb,
So,
I decided to uproot her,
And replace her with aspen,
Or at the very least,
Another species of maple,
But as the summer went on,
And as we circled her,
With a pretty stone wall,
That we lovingly placed in her midst,
And decorated the wall with potted plants,
And lanterns glistening with Christmas lights,
And after we sidled other young maples up to her,
And built a shed,
She did something unusual,
Something new:
She fell in love,
With herself,
And life,
For the very first time,
And she let the light in,
From above,
And gave of her sap,
To the hungry,
And took on a much more gentle form,
And to my near unbelief,
This Autumn,
Her leaves turned a bright lemon yellow,
And I thought she was just teasing,
For I thought that she would yield,
Just a hint of burnished gold,
Muted and fretful,
Dull and odd,
But instead,
She brought heaven to earth,
And day by day,
She became a blazing display of beauty,
As light itself beamed from her,
With hints of emerald green,
Chartreuse and lime,
And yellows so brilliant,
That they looked as if,
They had been back-lit by the sun.
Then late in the Autumn,
She sent a bouquet of her leaves,
Right to the back door,
Where I couldn’t miss them,
“See?” she boasted proudly,
A good kind of proud,
As she also sent a bounty of her leaves,
To undergird the fallen leaves from the other trees,
Sweeping them together to weave as one,
Into quilted blankets,
That traveled the back yard together,
Like children at play.
I am so happy for her,
That she became all that she could be,
And more,
Alas,
Once her petticoat left,
She bared her bones once again,
And I did not look away this time,
Her gray pencil-drawn outline,
Graced the soft blue winter sky,
And her pleasant shape,
Spoke of wisdom instead of anger,
Of gentleness instead of fear,
And I celebrated with her all winter long,
And rejoiced with her,
As she rested,
And made plans for the Spring.
I think she has a nest in mind,
And even though she is still learning,
She will teach the younger maples,
About love and life,
Maybe that is all she needed,
A sense of purpose,
Of being a part of something bigger,
Of knowing,
That I believe in her,
That I always loved her,
That is why I planted her in the first place,
But somehow she just couldn’t feel it,
Until now,
And now it is she,
Who gives love back,
For me,
For us,
For everything,
And she is just getting started,
My maple,
She is just getting started.
Sheila Willar - October 30, 2012
Psalm 92:13 (KJV)
Those who are planted in the house of the LORD shall flourish in the courts of our God.
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