Late Bloomer

My roots began in New England’s ground,

soft fertile earth where hope was found,

until that soil turned into sand

and scattered me to a harsher land.

From autumn maples blazing high

to a palm, pole-thin against the sky,

my branches sparse, my colors slow

to match the brilliance others show.

They burned their brightest long before

my late-born hues could reach the floor.

When their light dimmed, mine rose instead,

a lonely glow their fading shed.

A forest once enclosed my days

where I felt lost within its maze;

now I stand solitary, free,

a weather-tested, single tree.

No network roots to brace my form,

just quiet strength in every storm;

yet still my shadow, small and true,

offers rest for a chosen few.

I am a happy tree at last,

not by mere chance or seasons passed,

but through transplanting’s patient art

and pruning that revived my heart.