the maples out in front are now in leaf
they're always late only the top is green
below they've budded with a reddish sheen
but all i know's the sight gives me relief
once more we're past the season of slow grief
and watch as down the street the youngsters preen
in repetition of an ancient scene
knowing the heat of summer won't be brief
what's left inside must still be given voice
to sing of what has been and what must come
that's honest truth the whole and not some part
since what we do is really not our choice
but what we must add to the human sum
out of our knowledge and by gentle art