THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN MAPLES

Hall of the Mountain Maples

Dearest Readers,

There is a stretch of dirt road in Peacham Vermont that excites me. It’s often damp and dark, and marked by one point perspective that is draws me in. Along each side of the road stands a row of very old, maple trees ready to do a square dance or salute my entrance. I feel a kinship with their effort in standing tall despite the ravages of weather and aging. I view them as friends and kindred spirits–women with something sweet inside a rugged outer beauty.

THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN MAPLES

This is the Hall of the Mountain Maples

Ancient keepers of the stretch of dirt

That runs from Ha’Penny brook to Mack’s Mountain Road.

Beware their brawny beauty and gnarly hide.

Such courage could crush a tender chest.

This is the Colonnade of Persistence and Impermanence,

Of Staying Alive and Dying Slowly.

Of Faithfulness and Mutability.

Mute and mighty sentinels–

Look at you. Wrinkled torsos

Gouged and gaping,

Disemboweled, sliced open, pockmarked,

Pigeon holed, yet–

Still. You stand with crumbling bones,

Tossing up at least one verdant arm

As proof that this is not surrender.

You are trees. I am an old woman.

I understand what you are doing.