Of all alumni that attend the yearly spring reunion,
The little ash tree shows up late, eschewing close communion.
Not so much shy as disengaged, refusing invitations
To put out leaves until he’s shamed into participation.
Reclusive through the robiny-song and teasing wood thrush flute
He, wintery-boned and sullen-gray, stands still, his thin arms mute.
The maples, prompt, announce themselves in party dress so purty
With ruddy cheeks and chartreuse frills, gregarious and flirty.
Coquettes, they fill the atrium of warming skies with come-ons
But steely ash tree turns his back against their sultry summons.
On furrowed pillars tall, the oaks, a little tardy trundle,
Glad-handing neighbors with their glossy em’rald gauntlet bundles.
They push green paws through tender sleeves where shreds of autumn linger,
Despite a few brown paper gloves still snagged on clustered fingers.
Still zipped and buttoned-up, the ash, within himself remaining;
His insular existence guarantees from like refraining.
The staghorn sumac bounces in, a gaggle of antlered mates;
Their blazing pikes and cornrowed heads a festival mood creates.
And as the May Day songbirds cheer and chant to their sylvan host,
At last, their celebrating conjures up the taciturn ghost.
Just as they might have thought him overcome by winter’s freezing,
He, with no ceremony, with no pomp, and with no teasing
Allows his formerly shuttered buds to crack and split and cleave,
And grudging, glowering ash tree at last puts out stingy leaves.
And all the comp’ny of the yard lets out a sigh collective,
Rejoicing that their introverted friend was not defective!
And all is well, and all is fine, and all are in attendance
Amid the height of summer solstice, drinking sun’s resplendence.
But, end of August, mav’rick tree, though outward waxes mellow,
Is inward-braced for his retreat, and overnight goes yellow.
Alas, one morn, inscrutable ash stands gone, just shy of fall,
A fortnight after Labor Day with nary a leaf at all.