leaving me free to notice
white elephant ear fungi
sprouting overnight
on the trunk of my dying
maple tree, the one that
failed to penetrate hidden rock
and establish its taproot.
First its bark grew green-gray
with lichen. Branches,
brittle with thirst, broke off
with abandon. And leaves aged
too early, when they even
appeared at all. Woodpeckers
burrowed a nest for three
into drying pith.
Gusts of wind bode ill for
the giant's fate. Its hulking
mass threatens those once it
sheltered. Soon its
comforting bower will yield
to axe and saw; its
remains to exist in memory
alone.
I will notice its absence
as I did its slow decline,
inexorable fall from
stately splendor to dangerous
decrepitude.
My maple's effort to thrive lays
shallow within grass,
roots bulging and bursting
through as they seek to
slake the deep arboreal
thirst. Home to wasps and
worms, those stout wanderings
failed in their quest.
Not rootless yet nearly as
unstable, glorious maple
now ceases its search
for sustenance.
Now it sustains other, more
alien life. Fungi of many hues
flourish everywhere;
sickly yellow flaps under bark
and coal black globules
where root and earth meet.
Deep orange crust
barricades the open cleft
of this vulnerable majesty
while tiny grey ledges form
climbing walls for ants.
Squirrels chase tails up and back,
thick boughs their resting
place and launching pad onto
wires and mischief. The end rushes
toward us.
Those elephant ears
are not like Dumbo's. They
herald a permanent grounding,
the end of days. No more
soaring above people,
cars, streetlights and homes.
The pace quickens. Still
I am in no hurry
to say goodbye.
