This year, I learned that trees have mothers, too.
They gather light from branches high above,
Dispatch their sugared sap imbued with love;
Then mycorrhizal networks send it through
To saplings starting up in mother's shade.
Of course, not every tree can have a mom
--The orphan tree farm nor the potted palm--
But those that start their lives within a glade
Take time for deeper roots and denser wood.
They twist and spread, meander as they grow,
Each one unique in character and strength.
Perhaps because my childhood was so good
Your wait to harvest nachas has been slow.
Please trust--I'll vindicate your love at length.