My Maple

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The leaves on my maple start life in fragile shades of green.
They tentatively unfurl pale lime,
sometimes golden.

They grow toward summer.
Slick rubbery surfaces become verdant labs,
energy pads;
an alchemical mission marrying sun, dirt, and water from who knows where.

Some leaves are breezy cool;
blowing their rustle in bluish notes.
Some are robust and greedy.

The pale hide under the canopy.
The bold hang far out at the edge of things
ruddy,
edges crisp before their time.

And then the fall.
Oh, the fall…

Pale leaves turn incandescent –
glowing sun.
They gather steam for a final run;
cycling from verdancy
to hot tomato red
and brilliant ruby.

They dance a holy conflagration,
a fire dance;
blazing tribute to the golden orb of life.

Till one-by-one they float down.
Leaving the ground a colorful mess,
branches bare,
and a wintery view to the sky.

Dedicated to The Chutney Chicks.

2015 copyright

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