What lies beneath

The silver maple
has seen at least 150
summers and winters
and could explain
the difference between
weather and climate.
If it does
acerbically speak it says things like
‘my roots go deep
and I reach as high
as I can still drink from them.
Those are my limits.
And I can be happy with them.’

So I suppose I can
converse with it.
Has anyone tapped
your treasure of knowledge
before I wonder.

Today as I dug for a post
on the other side of
the sidewalk
with my back to you,
the boulevard mammoth,
I found two of your
larger roots and
many small ones.

I cheerfully curse
as I dig round them.
Too close to earth day
to kill your drinking supply.

Oh but I’m so tempted.
And why? So my hole can go
where I want it?
Does my landscape
need to be so regimented?

And did I not defend you
with that cube-truck delivery guy
who took that chunk out of your limb?
I sure did.

But now
I’m in from my second
attempt at the hole
and it will probably take
a third or fourth.

But I’m taking my
time. I like the smell of
the living earth under
my finger nails.
Wafting up periodically
as I type.
I’m talking back to you tree.
I caress your tongue roots
with my shovel
hoping not to cut our
To keep that bridge alive.



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