This maple that stands at the edge of the cornfield
at the big curve in the road, this one, newly aflame
with the deep oranges she lifts to the sky each autumn,
is an old friend. I’ve known her for decades now,
walked beneath her branches, explored the old farmhouse
she sheltered all its life. I remember the tire swing
that hung from one of her limbs and imagine
the laughter of children playing there on a day
much like this one. Their family had a barn, too,
and cows that grazed where the corn grows now.
And right in the middle of the cornfield, there’s a tree
with thick branches that folks call the hanging tree.
This maple holds all these stories for me and more.
I always look her way as I slow for the curve.
She comforts me, and I imagine we’re radiating
love to each other, feeling a connection somehow.
I round the curve and the cornfield gives way to woods,
and she is behind me now, marking the invisible point
that tells me my journey’s ending. that I am almost home.