True, you are still mine—tall,
towering, easy over the farm and valley.
None of the oak’s sober majesty
nor the doomed elm’s lithe grace,
not even the tidy graciousness of the maple,
you are of less account, weedy poplar.
Tongue of my longing:
Restless pivots, your leaves rattle
in summer as much as in fall;
leaves that shudder
hilarious before the storm.
And, upwards you go
when all around is crosswise.
Guardian, come down slowly.