At the end of the garden

I’m not quite sure
whether my tree
is a he or she
either way
I adore it utterly
for nearly forty years
I’ve watched it grow
and it’s been
watching me
I know
waving at me
standing by the open window
gazing lovingly at her or him
as balmy breezes
blow swaying leaf-laden branches
exuberantly
to and fro

come November
green leaves
turned mellow yellow gold
as cold winds
spiral them
slowly down to the earth below
in unison
the two of us sigh

both longing for
the advent
of joy bringing Spring
to be ushered in
asap
beloved tree
and I