of redbud tress that spring up
like wild onions and tout their lives
as the good luck of the natural
extravagance of a common breed  

Oh, down this path of rugged resort
sugar maples,  untapped  by  need,
shade the tight valley from august heat
and wait to show-off their flare
in autumns’  intro to death  

Along the inner fence a border oak
we call Old Red is cleared of brush and vine
for the occasional blanket and basket,
a wine bottle overwintered here
with a note inside: this, a burial place  

And yes, in a tangle of vine and creeper
and thorny rose and invasive honey suckle
a solid acre of dead ash lost to an army
of emerald borers whose appetite
seems innocent enough to themselves  

Come see the stand of eastern cedar
where moss and fern carpet the ground
and small birds flit safely in dense needle
hidden from the posture of cow pasture