Diminutive

Today where a white house, years back, stood,
The spruces sigh seas above my head;
Now the house has gone, perhaps for good,
The trees tell all its occupants said.

And when I first looked twenty years ago
The tops of those spruces scratch-kissed my knee;
But since, of the two most obvious ways to grow,
I've grown down, or up has grown each tree.

I tilt my head this summer afternoon; mouse-small,
Gaze up at their dark conferring in the breeze,
As the lordly sun above them lounges in his blue hall;
There is but one who among them sees

How their group stands still at my old knee height:
I'm not the giant I used to be, somehow,
Whose high dark head then barred blind light
From such as stand to me like giants now.