Hickory Sunrise
The morning's first cup is sweetest, rich and hot,
as I look through my kitchen window at the hickory.
The low branches will come off first.
Once upon a time I'd climb it, perch atop the high branches,
then in the throes of leafing, to gaze unfettered at the land.
Should take the day to get them all,
put them through the chipper.
Dawn creeps upon October's harvested plain,
sun igniting pumpkin flames in the lazy creek that bends at the tree,
early mist caressing damp carob earth.
The trunk will come later this week.
Dew-stained fences meander idle tracts of shorn fields,
air pungent with hay, apples and barley.
Etched against apricot clouds spread in lemon sky
strides the hickory, alive with orange light
and bustling with wrens and robins,
far off roosters crowing morning prayers.
The stump will be out before the first snow.
We'll be moved to town for winter by then,
won't hear the wind crying over memories.
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