To A Tree
I DID not meet you until May. Just sawyour fine, white lacy garments fade and fallthen in their place, leaves grow to shadeshiny eggs, which in turn crack and breakand fledglings that emerge, wide-beaked amazed.
Now mellow green your leaves are each a care
worn face, their features lined by summer storms
which lately tired and strained your spreading boughs.
I do not like the damasked rose that sways
then clings, nor lilies that emerge so bland.
I await the bronzes of your evening wear
that all too soon, will dull to winter's grey.
Yet, still within those silver-coated twigs
a daint white dressed lady surely lives.
Mary Charman-Smith