Exposed and chilly as bare branches
on the trees, now having all but
lost their amber leaves. Rake them
up and off the floor; a pile of humus
and rot beneath towering glass-and-
concrete cages. The air stings and
singes open sores caused by
carelessness in the morning. But
nothing is too much, neither too
painful for this two-decade young maple.
A wash of feverish warmth and wine
coloured fingers and cheeks; the same
tint of the same red maple trees
dyed maroon with coming shorter days,
and the skies of grey loom.
But great is the smell of rain and
damp greenery. Believe in me, if
you must believe in something. Some
distant sense of disillusionment
lost along the way, along the empty
rows of sown wheat where the fields
meet the forest-edge and hedges.
Picture the lingering purple shrouds,
a blanket to cover the earthly greens
and ochres. Oaks are tired and bend
when the sun sets just after six-
thirty. Willows wallow like eaves
over river shores hidden under
the deepening evening haze. The trees
become shadows haunting the very
land that belongs to them. Honour
to all things for which we grieve.
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