It's the rising of sun on Summer days
where mature branches loll over the vale,
mist like a sea, letting only the boldest
of mountains to breathe above the waves.

With each sway of every frail arm,
made a dancer in the wind's soft gale.
roots dug and redoubled by the sun's kiss,
but it's liminal here, before Autumn's harm.

Do you yearn for the Spring-
for when it all was in bloom?
Is it depressive to think-
of the impending frost's gloom?

As the mist now settles,
choking out my view.
As heaven's frost petals
will soon do to you.

I'll leave, yet I'll return,
a thousand times to this place
each day, each of us a bit bigger.

And still I'll never learn
quite how to grow and to face
my own winters with your vigor.