Monologue from a Maple

My trunk is scarred with lightning strikes,
My leaves, no stranger to years of blight
The sugar in my veins runs slowly now
but when you were young, I was in my prime,
sturdy in summer for that old rope swing
and flaming in autumn so brilliantly
that even I almost swooned.

Yesterday, you came back home.
Of course the old rope swing is gone, rotted
by so many years of sun and storm,
With hands almost as gnarled as my limbs,
you gently touched the rope marks
on my arm.

In that moment we retraced the years
again, back to when you spun around
or swung so high your toes touched heaven,
I was stately tall and spry in any wind,
And you my friend were agile as a cat.
The years now seem in such a rush
to tumble us from roots we’ve known so long,
but make no mistake,

those that bend do not break.

 

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