maples

The maples that year —
More red than I had ever seen them,
Lamped from within by strange blood
And alien urgency — stayed waving to me
Well into November, watching from a distance
And dropping silent leaves as if
Tasked with the delivery of
Some great secret. I could not take the hint.
But it was a year of peace: the wars had ended
And the indiscretions of the night,
Whatever they were, had receded.
And in the last rattling week of December,
It became the year I forgave myself.

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