THE MAPLE
Incisions and fractures heal with time
into seamless webs of disguise;
where observation reveals
no evidence of trauma
I look for the scar as one faint reminder.All my toes and fingers are intact
despite bombs and pyrotechnics,
fiery displays of July.
Diseases come and go
and I'm still whole.
It's unlike me to get down
on my knees to thank heaven,
rather, I seek out the visionary,
like the maple in my mom's front yard
where she toils every Fall
without examining a branch
from which her labor stems.My dad planted that
maple when I was a kid.
We towered above it with
expectations for its future.
Looking down I tried to imagine
its grandeur, spreading skyward,
shading hot Julys with
ice tea leaves and spearmint light.One day my father backed
and cursed and fell over
the maple sapling
breaking off a whole branch.
Nothing alive could perish that day
as I ran for razor knives and bandages
to splice up the young tree.
Dad was rarely one to stand
in the way of one of my experiments,
but said, I doubt that'll work, son."
"Give it a month," I told him,
"let's keep an eye on it,
see what happens."I recall to everyone's surprise,
the limb survived, but now,
when I visit mom on holidays
and take the time to view
the maple up and down,
I find neither fold nor frazzle,
not one skewed branch out of place,
poking awkwardly southwest
out over my old bedroom.In one twist of grace
my maple has aligned
all wounds and miracles
with sky-blue spirits
and now, fulfills
a summery swelter of prophecies,
cooling promises repaid by every leaf.
It towers symmetrically,
boughs full of compost
to drop on my mother's lawn,
mindless of critical care,
resisting the howl of seasons
and the human presence
almost gone.
ŠJimmy Warner Design 2010