I don’t know her name or species.
She doesn’t know mine either.
Neither of us cares.
She just stands there—sun, rain
sleet, snow—at the edge of the trail
that stage coaches traveled, all the way,
they tell me, from New York to Chicago
nearly two hundred years ago. She,
whom I address as “Mother Maple,”
has been there, on the east edge
of the south hill where she can catch
the sunrise, a long time, too.
I have known her for over three decades now,
and count it as a privilege held in high regard.
I remember an autumn when hundreds
of migrating starlings perched for a while
in her boughs and in the boughs of all
her neighbors, singing until you thought
the earth itself would rise up at the sound.
Today, her limbs are nearly bare.
Only slim garlands of her last red leaves
remain and a lone leaf here and there.
I nod to her, an appreciative salute,
as I turn toward my door, silently
wishing her sweet dreams, and promising
to check in with her from time to time,
no matter what winter brings.