Am I the tree with deep roots
and thick bark?
A burrow for a fox at my base,
a hole in a sturdy limb for an owl?
Each winter ice storms break some branches,
but in autumn golden leaves hold sway.

Once I was a sapling
curiously poking through snow cover,
stretching my greening arms toward the sun.
In spring birds flocked to the nectar of my white blossoms
and in summer hands reached for the juicy purple plums.
I was perky and secure in my harvest.

What spans the life cycle
of a budding and aging tree?
It's a rainbow bridging beginning and end.
If I balance from one pole to the other
over curves and along bends,
I can savor the colors of each stage.