Maple

I miss the maple
that stands at my childhood home,
a summer shelter for our simple games
a whisperer of good, green words
sifting the sunlight for us
through glistening leaves.

And in the deepening chill
it warmed our quiet indoor play
casting rubescent shadows through the glass
from branches bloodied by the wind--
a burning tree
but not consumed.

--
David Welch is a husband, a father of three small boys and a writer from Texas.