Old and brown.
Only your imagination can remember the deep red
Of this maple leaf on her tree in autumn,
Exuberant with her sisters in the fall wind,

Pirouetting on the tree.
You picked it for me,
Holding it by the stem,
Pointing to its lobs, declaring the five ways

You loved me,
You could not live without me,
And five reasons to immediately marry.
Our red maple tree made the best leaves for jumping,

Our children laughed. And the best shade in summer,
Your mother declared.
I stroke the old leaf as I gaze at the tree,
Sprays answering every breeze.

She is my secret poetry tree –
Where my eyes wander when the words are congested,
A promise of movement in stifled time,
Treasure of our tribe.