Looking out the San Pedro Chapel window, I was suddenly transferred to Brooklyn, New York when I
was twelve. We'd moved from a garbage can lines street to a tree-lined street.

My True Maple Love
Fran Weissenberg

At my 12`x' year,
In our new home,
A tree lined street
With unpaved streets
I found
My true Maple Love.

My own little tree
Stood tall and proud
Its slim trunk held up
An umbrella of leaves
And reached the second floor
Of our six family house
My true Maple Love.

From my third floor bedroom
I whispered Good Morning.
It kept the seasons for me
Spring with its hopeful buds
In summer, it offered its umbrella of leaves
A merry cap of colors in the fall days
And the naked look, sparkling with winter's icy breath.
My true Maple Love.

We both grew,
When I went to college
It could peak into my window.
But when I married and had my first-born My maple suffered a fatal illness.
My true Maple Love.

When the gaunt scepter of my Maple
Had to be removed
My three year old daughter and I cried.
"But look, my Maple left us small saplings
and they will grow into new maples."
"Like me, mommy," Debbie said in her young wisdom.
I hugged her. She understood.
Our true Maple Love.

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