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To My Magnificent Sugar Maple
(Good-bye old friend.)
I miss the shelter of your spreading arms.
Tall and proud you stood beside my door
for at least one hundred fifty years.
You stand no more.
No homecoming will ever be the same.
A roaring gust brought you to the ground.
No more subtle rustling in the breeze.
I miss that gentle sound.
The birds that sat upon your swaying limbs
now build their nests and sing
where I can barely hear or see
in the branches of some distant tree.
I miss the shelter of your spreading arms.
The quiet shaded cool beneath your summer crown
Heaps of leaves when you undressed. Drifting multitudes
of red and gold as you shed your autumn gown.
Your lanky shadow cast upon the winter snow,
your crystal covered branches on which the sun would glow.
And natures soft green leaves would bring.
Rejuvenation every spring.
I'll question not natures rhymes or reasons.
I miss you, my tall sentinel of all seasons.
The Winters Wood
The men brought logs fresh cut from the woods.
The rhythmic thud of ax on splintering wood is heard.
The ringing echo of sledge on wedge
as newly split wood scatters about the yard.
My job is to stack the coming winters fuel.
As I labor, I am warmed, heated, sweating.
The aroma of fresh cut maple, apple
and cherry meets my nostrils.
I know the satisfaction of seeing the woodpile grow.
Row upon row in waiting
for when the winters chill requires fires
brightly burning in stove and hearth.
While our home it's heating,
the smokey scent of maple, apple and cherry
sends forth it's greeting
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Rain on The Roof
I wake up in the night to the steady beat of rain on the roof.
I think of the happiness of all the folk whose springs are low.
I think of thirsty plants drinking up the rain.
Especially corn, how fast it all will grow
when the sun comes out again.
As I listen to the beat of rain on the roof
I think of puddles in the morning and little boys glee
as they stomp in those puddles merrily.
I think of dwindling ponds rapidly refilling,
swirling streams free flowing.
A cool breeze refreshingly is blowing.
Clouds drift in the night across the August sky.
I drift to sleep
to the steady beat of rain on the roof.
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all poems on this page written by Joy Cenicola page 7
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