These are the days of ease,
The days of the Sugar Maple
And the Butternut trees,
The Walnut and the Hickory.
My young saplings grow as these,
Little roots, little branches, little bark,
Until they’ve grown, and put off leaves,
And leave me breathless in the breeze.
Should I never get to see,
Another limb stretch to the sky,
These days are hidden treasuries,
Of maples and of memories.