At seventy-five
once again I observe
the tree that defines
this open field

Waiting
at the door of the forest
she is a lesson
in how to hold your space

In the sudden apparition 
of a dozen hedge apples
on the ground in slow decay
I see the green orbs going to mold

and know her seeds 
will spread before fall,
I look up from here
into June’s blue

only a little blue myself
with the gentle swell 
of regret at the certain
limit of my time here

Ms Osage will thrive
and any memory
of my keeping clear
this south-facing meadow

and the act of my saving her
from the teeth of Mr. Stihl
will have long disappeared