Are my bulwark against the black as it creeps across the ridge.
Standing solid in the wind of many storms.
Their skyward tops once cut like blades of grass, but still the maples stood.
And now These Trees reach higher than before, pushing beyond the cut.
As I lope along at my chores, quickly before the dark completely drops,
These Trees exist ready, in the back of my thoughts, a safeguard.
These black lines, These Trees, are the last to disappear
Into the night.
As long as I can see These Trees,
I can linger for a moment more.
Happy weekend ahead, friends.