Monday, June 28, 2021

O CANADA

 



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.



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