The Money Tree
When I was young, I heard of a money tree.
Asking Dad if he knew where one would be—
“They arrive in autumn when gold leaves fall,”
handing a rake to bag a leafy multicolor haul.
Paid in coins “tree money.”
Dad’s joke—too funny.
Now I’ve seen a lot of autumn time.
Stopped raking fall…losing my prime.
Watching the gardener work—not for free,
remembering Dad every leaf drop I see.
Past shadows arise—under a money tree.
April Ryan is Edmonds Potentate of Poems and longtime Washington resident.
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