The Silver Maple

As they carve at our tall rotting maple

I stand outside to watch the old tree die.

One tree cutter said that a felled tree

Gives off its essence and an aura lingers.

As branches fall, a sapling grove springs up,

Light blooms green, air so pungent

With core wood I feel more alive;

And though the tree is nearly down,

I look up it towers above the pines,

Ragged crown of blue and silver leaves

Before darkness covers my tree of light.

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