Her maple limbs pluck the strings
with nimble eloquence,
using the soft breath
of the west wind to propel
her delicate rhythm.

Her leaves lightly brush the strings
providing time to concentrate so
she can be careful not to harp
incessantly upon stale notes.

Her knotholes begin to weep
as the clouds construct the morose
setting as she slows down her warm-up
flutter to prepare for her final elegy.

The white coat warming her exposed
roots becomes animated and scoops and
kicks more of the licentious earth, needed
to cover her neglected vulnerabilities.

The tuning twigs do their final job
and the viney harp is strung taut
for her farewell climax. I step forward
into the sonic umbrella and let it protect
me from the descending evils.

I stared up into her weathered sockets once
again, now recognizing the somber stare
as attempting optimistic agony. Her largest
limb comes around and sweeps me closer
to her trunk, my arms opened automatically
like a child burying his bashful red face into
his mother's tired legs.

She seems to smile upon me (even now),
her wish womb pregnant with infinite
infant mercies as her final refrain crashed
down around me, offering the greatest gift
I shall ever receive.

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