My neighbor’s live oak is a modest tree;
She stands now in March
Fully leaved in a brown fur coat,
Waiting patiently for sap to rise
And push new leaves
To hide our eyes.

I have watched her now
Six short years,
Every year the same.

A chaste three feet of trunk exposed,
Her hemline proves her to be the
Modest Canadienne.

Her crisp brown cloak
Rises to the tip
Of her leafy beret
As she stands prim and straight.

My shameless ash trees
Shed their clothes and stand
Naked in October winds,
Brittle in January,
Lifeless in March,
Grudgingly putting forth
A summer supply of leafery
Long enough to prove
Existence.

But she, the oak across the street,
Is beautiful and coy,
Covered in rich deep greens
Or solemn browns
With hardly a day between
Her changing.