Memorial Maple
A piercing red shouts out. The border’s end
Is painful to the organs, heart, and mind,
And eyes. It calls, “Forgotten is your friend,
Forgotten through the year until I blind
You with my raucous scarlet autumn leaves.
You pass me every day as if I am
A fretted blank space that your brain perceives
Like Helen Keller’s pupils, numbed. Then, wham,
October comes, and at the corner of
The garden where you planted me, I surge
To color like an agony in love.
Serrrations on my limbs send out the scourge
That you deserve for your forsaking soul.”
Thus speaks the sudden, filled up acer hole.
