Friday, September 30, 2011

Maple Leaves

Citrine bits scatter sown over

The lake’s memory of black quartz

Drift like golden light-filled dories.

So the sowing goes all day

Across the broad field of the water,

Off and on, in gusts of well-populated wind.

But sometimes in an artful dropping,

One by one, each leaf settling on its twin

Until the maples lose all their inhibitions.

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