Hoping for Shade

July 2 2020

The maples grew fast.

Mere saplings

when they were planted on the sunward side

hoping for shade.

Now, decades later

in the full bloom of summer

their canopies touch

in a bulwark of green

dappled with sun.

Their trunks tower over the house,

creaking in a heavy wind

and casting ominous shadows

on moonlit nights.

And from somewhere in their heights

shedding small dead branches

as if pruning themselves.

Weathered roots

with rough brown bark

spread shallowly over the grass,

permanently bent

like the clawed fingers

of an old arthritic hand.

In fall, yellow-brown leaves

will fill the lawn

almost knee high.

And on a crisp October day

I will kick through them like a child,

delighting in their brittle rustling

and dry airy lightness.

But now, older and wiser

I will also think about growth and decline

and the passage of time

and how we measure out our lives

by counting down.

About how, in a matter of months

these bare forbidding trees

will be reborn.

About the reassuring order

of the seasons and cycles,

and how in winter's welcome dormancy

nature is restored.

While we are linear,

getting inexorably older

with each passing year.

So while the saplings have grown

I have lost height.

And while their leaves have greened and their canopies thickened

I have thinned and greyed.

And while the shade has multiplied

I have only gained in regret

and found myself becoming

more and more forgetful.

How long since I planted them

how fast time really goes.

I've gone to the internet several times to try to figure out just what kind of maples these are. Nothing seems to match: the shape of the leaves, their colours in fall. So generic “maple” is all I've got! Probably some kind of hybrid. They are fast growing. Their roots could be less destructive. Their fall colours aren't much. Yes, the provide great shade. But they're also a lot of work in fall. I wasn't kidding about knee high!

I want to apologize for this becoming another poem about age and time. I go there far too much. I was not intending to, but my process seems to inexorably lead that way: I set out with an opening line and a general idea, but then allow my stream of consciousness to take hold of the keyboard (it used to be a pen; now it's a keyboard) and carry me along. My critical mind is engaged enough to edit the sentences as I go. But all the while, my subconscious is dictating the path.