Walt’s Maple

 I used to think of that tree as ours

One side turned to the road another towards

the screened in porch.

We’d marvel 

     Not knowing anything, except it’s curious 

Bloom, how the leaves took different shapes,

How half reached for the sky while the 

Other clung,

How outwards vibrant green turned to red

While the inward yellowed and browned, 

A divided tree, 

      We wondered aloud at its differences

   Wondered even if, it was a graft some part gifted to the whole, an addition, too special

But this year, I watched the tree alone, 

as the branches reaching toward our porch did not bud, 

Walt told me the roots -not pruned, had choked it dry, 

And I,

By myself, cleaned the porch in which you used to sit, 

   The living room in which we played,

The dining area in which we ate,

The bedroom where we once laid,

     And then set out, saying goodbye alone, to Walt’s maple, no longer yours and mine

 (well maybe still mine).