A maple tree overhangs tennis courts
crisp white lines on clay
cleanly split by a barrier that is mostly holes

It sits on the edge of a small ditch dividing
the courts from a field
yawning branches over fence and grass

Each crisp delineation is smeared by
the shadow of its leaves
and the unseen reach of
each bifurcating root
sews halves into a whole

At least a few first loves
blossomed underneath its boughs
but it is enough just to
smile on its warmth