This morning I sat under our swamp oak
on one of the stumps
saved in tribute to our late yellowwood,
now mulch in some other corner of the yard.

These stumps recollect sheltering shadows,
clusters of fragrant, pea-like flowers,
a shower of white then yellow
delicate winter branches,
the hammering of woodpeckers,
diving squirrels.

Already, busy carpenter ants invade
its remains, grinding
it down to
sawdust.