Her Name Is Maple

Her bark was rended and painful, blood red sap like tears ran down her cheeks,

The cracks of her flesh were the highways she had once tread, mute evidence of her growth,

Scarlet foliage burning the horizon, fighting the chill of autumn’s ghosts,

Boughs reaching to the sky in silent appeal, for a breath of fresh air amidst satellite signals,

A body twisting toward the sweet promise of sunlight, yearning toward a southern heat,

Secretly beneath her mask, hidden in the folds of her skirting soil, subtle questing into the depths,

Holding on fast to the earth and stone, desperately seeking the strength to withstand the winds,

Suckling the cool nectar of rain’s memory, that had crept from the heights to the valley spring,

Soft words that spell epiphany to the mind who stops to listen, ethereal voice of solace and peace,

Hidden in the dark of the wood where only breezes wander, she whispers to the crows. 




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