There lives this one tree to which I have bonded, this maple–outside the window over my desk, just beyond the green mailbox. It is deeply rooted in my life.
It stands for all the trees in all the world, an object lesson I can see, smell and taste: we make syrup in the early spring from its sap. Its constancy is reassuring in a world of change.
This always will not always be. The maple will remain–only for a time; I will move on before.
And so I made a point not long ago to pull up a chair at the edge of the dirt road and be in the cool quiet of its space for a settled hour.
This likeness, perhaps, some day, will bring me back to that shady spot, into maple dreaming.