I'll miss the trees
or, I should say,
I'll miss the dappling light hitting my cheeks
shade filtered through varying Sassafras leaves.
I'll miss the Japanese Maple in my parents' front yard
who once offered herself to my imagination—
a childhood plaything, a friend.
Not all quite so nice,
barefoot stepping on Sweet Gum's spikes
will I masochistically miss even her? the familiarity?
Certainly, the Dogwood too,
the Chistological imbued in her blood,
which runs through my hometown.
It's time I become acquainted with new birds, new stones, new trees.
A new life, syllogistically,
to find and make mine.