I think at times of the maple
My sister and I once saw;
It’s pale gold leaves clutching
The late-day light like sheaves
Of gathered wheat, limbs full,
And wonder—is it still there,
In its quiet corner
Of eternity?
Is that where it always
Was and why it seemed
To thrum with a taught light
Beyond our autumn sun’s,
Then falling frail and brittle?
Are there golden woods
Whose leaves sieve fallen light—
And can you stumble off
Your path, find yourself
Within them for a breath?
I remember it at times
And wonder if it’s there—
Gold leaves as light as petals,
Breathing air as bright
As daylight caught in rain;
Is it still there gathering
The fallen light like grain?