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