300 feet from my tower stands a blurry little tree

perhaps a maple; built from a sweet heart, seeping with sap swept and swallowed in

disdain by bowls, buckets, outstretched hands

of any wandering by until gone

lame and dry.

or perhaps a willow; wise, looming, broad

shouldered and most of all, hollow; fickle-hearted, insides blank save

for the terrain which hoists it forever swaying, sweeping the ground for a single swallow

of something stable on which to bear its roots

300 feet away, I pray for fall to come and pass like pine bark

aflame and give me spring, so I can go

on a 300-foot walk and spot

the most peculiar pair: A willow set still, hearty branch of wide-toothed leaves protruding;

A maple trunk sap-steeped, lofty limber curtain of green above it

and wonder if I, too, could be completed.