"And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever."
Dylan Thomas, "The Force that though the Green Fuse Drives the Flower"
Each year, when the maples catch fire,
I am tempted to stop the car & spend
the day staring, warming my eyes,
gathering the strength to survive
another November's lapse & loss.
There is a subtle rise in the blood,
a tiny blush, a push to slow down,
to crave rest & to look for what's
not all lost: an old charm still hiding,
a souvenir of youth that first came alive
one Autumn watching a maple catch fire.
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