Its branches arc over the house like the spokes of an umbrella.
Its seedpods clog the gutters in Spring; its leaves shelter the house from
Summer's withering glare.
In Fall, its leaves dance and die; again the gutters cradles --
Not sparks of what might of been, but
Embers of what gloriously, patiently
Was.
Its roots explore the foundation.
Its branches praise the heavens.
In winter, the thinking person's tree
Withdraws into itself,
And the branches appear sclerotic
Against the gray vault
Of Perihelion.
Today, as on all days,
It simply is.
Thrusting down, praising up,
Thick with life,
Always prepared.
Swathed in symbiosis
With my fragile abode
(Whose bones are planed
From fellow trees),
The thinking person's tree
Always waits, but stays present;
Always is rooted
And is always on the move;
Always loves what it shelters,
And gently, unapologetically
Uses
What it loves.
--Mr. Gobley
