Winter, and the maple leaves are brown,
toasted wafers,
they have sacrificed
green and water
to their trees of origin.
A few soft ones
with delicate skins
reveal old arteries and veins,
quiet traces
of residual hue.
Others have thick skins,
hiding histories and old skeletons.
Denying their reality they hope
they may be raised
in a glorious resurrection.
But that’s not how the game is played.
New life is coming:
new
leaves,
with the syrup of spring –
not theirs, or mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment