217 - My friends, the trees outside my window, soon

My friends, the trees outside my window, soon
I shall be gone. I’ve seen your four seasons.
Through this day’s gloom you brightly bloom; festoon
Your branches, you at left, with white blossoms;
You, there, with red-green leaves, pink petals; come
Into your glory. Soaring evergreens,
You stand, like proud parents who gaze on sons
Maturing suddenly (familiar scenes
For sure), chips off your block. Strong offspring means
A growth of hope. Are older trees immune
To hope? Growth, alone, sees new horizons.
Or, when their sap’s rising, perhaps their dreams
Gain eyes? So, hoary woodwind, blow your tune.
Like you, I wave my arms - goodbye, my friends!
Mon 9 Apr 2007