for Robin, my daughter
Last spring we planted a small
Japanese maple. So meager and spindly,
its few leaves curving over its pencil-thin
stem like a derelict, half-open umbrella.
We could only imagine this year’s
perfection, the dappled shade it would cast,
there, by the standing stone, its leaves
like little hands unfolding their rich, red
translucency, blessing the Chinese
water bowl half full of rounded beach stones,
its surface dimpled as water pours,
like music, from the bamboo spout.
Luci Shaw
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