sub*text

Thinking of the red maple in the yard of my boyhood home
I can trace a line from there to here
from that boy to this one
walking those old roads is something like how the imagination must smell
newest scent mere memory of Time and place of emotion
and in these lay even those fabricated ones read or imagined
in all this I find the value and weight of everything now
of this life I admire all trees becuase of that one
for every thing a former was born
what I ask myself Am I concieveing this moment
when may its future blossomng arrive
to weave a hope for every moment save the last which can only look forward
to make that most unnatural leap above every hope and beyond all beauty and desire