I remember a time
when I took for granted
the delight of
all-you-can-eat pancakes
after a country drive
to a maple shack
in late winter
and thinking back
to previous autumns
with the vibrant colors
of those same maples
singing to scattered clouds
in an azure sky.

I remember, as well,
riding my bike
on the Riverwalk
along the Niagara
beneath a canopy of green,
the maples whispering to me
as their leaves rustled
in the gentle breeze
coming off the river,
a poem forming in my mind
lamenting the scarcity of oaks
so outnumbered by maples.

And now I walk beneath
the dozen oaks that number
among the many trees
of my new home,
their leaves falling
even in spring,
or drive along
the hills and bluffs of Missouri
covered with sycamore, hickory
and, yes of course, oak
and wonder,
“Where are the maples?”