Barren

I was once the seed of promise. 

Pastoral glory in my sprout,

Radiating in encapsulating limerence. 

My branches like beaming rays, 

Engulfing dreams under a warmth

Only youth possesses. 

But as I grew taller, my leaves more firm,

The winters grew harsher.

The atmosphere is stinging cold

Or seeping heat.

And I, not fully grown and

Easy wounded by whipping wind,

Am now a barren maple

In a sea of evergreen pine.

I am lost in the view of

Lush trees glowing green year-round in

Uniform forestry and beauty, 

Yet I am simultaneously scrutinized. 

Yet I, I am barren in winter,

And spring, and summer, and fall.

My annual regrowth never comes. 

Neither evergreen nor deciduous.

Months are not marked by change, 

And they bleed and bleed until the 

Trunk merely counts the rings. 

Not the children who sit beneath,

Not the fruits grown, 

Not the branches climbed in wonder. 

Nature remembers, but by nature

I cannot, because my leaves never return.

Frigidness stripping my limbs bare,

I not only lost natural purpose,

But now, “Maple” is but a word. 

You cannot see my crimson in the fall, 

Painting the sidewalk in

Crumbs of scarleted sunset. 

Nor my golden atmosphere as the

Summer lemon shade engulfs the sun. 

My emerald treasure lost,

One that sings of spring and 

Childlike wonder. 

I am only stricken cold.

Frozen in winter as seasons pass.

Amongst regrowth and beauty, 

I stand desolate and unfruitful.