On the eve of my 60th birthday
Even old trees put forth small young leaves, as lime
green as they ever did. It’s just that when the leaves grow and shade
each other, surrendering to the striking rain or the lifting wind
and the turning and falling in their time
the tree is not of the leaves. There is the tree, and then
there are the leaves. The hope comes forth, the buds unfurl
like the life of an insect, but the tree does not hope.
The tree plays, watching each leaf go its way. Feel the
shivering of breeze that sets free every permutation
of a blissful dance when it blows all day.