The Last of His Breed


Shivering in its snowy shrug,
a version arboreal of
an ermine wrap royal,
the red maple’s lonely hand
grasps its place at the end
of its branch.
You could take that literally,
the brown leaf clutching
the spot where a redbud memorial
will rise and erect a replacement,
come spring.

I prefer to view this
forsaken member of another
of my tree’s ring’s ring of children,
all growing into singular sentinels
armed with chlorophyll and
munching on sunlight to feed
the family and Mother Maple.
He devoutly and proudly
grasps that place as well,
as the last of his breed.

Photo ©2014 by Joseph Hesch

One thought on “The Last of His Breed

  1. Maple’s are beautiful…. I grew up with two big ones in my front yard. I mostly love the little whirl-I-gig seeds in the fall. And of course – spreading his, its – er, um, excrement all over my pancakes!

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