The poem follows a maple tree through its year, picturing it as a series of women. In spring and summer they are sweet and green, whispering and flirting. In autumn they turn bold and scarlet, tossing their leaves everywhere. In winter they are bare skeletons, knuckles cracking in the dark. The last "ladies" are generous, feeding us with "blood made of light," an image that suggests sunlight turned into sap and sugar.
Then the tone shifts. The two numbered sections drop the playful voice and speak directly to us. The first notes that what we actually see is "the dying trees," and asks, with a hint of helplessness, what the sun or the wind can do. The second answers with a quiet instruction: worship dirt and water, because everything we need is under our feet.
The mood moves from affectionate and lively to eerie, then grave, and finally steady. The speaker seems to love the tree, worry about its decline, and look for comfort in the earth itself.