THE BURNING MAPLE
This fall the Maples have said no
To fear. Nothing can scare
Them out their gold trappings.
Others have quietly yielded:
Judases, Sycamores, Tupelos—
They’re done ghosting around
The chicken fence,
Between grass blades, inside brown bags.
They are ready to zero down, again.
The birds are gone. Naked
Branches slither under the moon,
Empty pythons wrestling wind. Alone, out
Of step, the Maples burn—
Bright halo over shaggy heads
Blue black inside veins, resisting
What seems inevitable.
Burn as though they had something important
To prove, pass on—
More than fear or revenge, meaning;
Desire to make a difference here.
Sabyasachi Nag is the author of two books of poetry: Bloodlines (Writers Workshop, 2006) and Could You Please, Please Stop Singing (Mosaic Press, 2015). His work has appeared in several journals including The Antigonish Review, Canadian Literature, CV2, and Grain. He is a graduate of the Writer’s Studio, SFU.