How it sizzles,
this maple,
brazen in the sunset,
each blazing leaf
a crackle
like the fire in a hearth
spitting embers,
bodaciously sassing the sun.
A note, dear reader: many years ago, oh, so many, I was advised never to use a series of sibilant sounds. Which, as you can tell, is a rule that doesn’t take itself too seriously. I thought of it as I wrote that last line and reveled in my rebellion. It sounds like a leaky tire, but I like it.
My front yard may be small
but in gold it’s very big
ruddy, blushing yellows
on every branch and twig.
I raised my trusty camera
to capture golden riot
but was dissuaded from my focus
by the egotist too nigh it.
I had to zoom behind
to my neighbor’s tree instead
because nothing photobombs
like the high and mighty red.
Oneupmanship rages
in late garden staples:
the geranium will not be outdone
by the maples.
Can this indeed
become a leaf,
this hairy
pink extrusion?
Are these the
infant maples,
these shy demure
protrusions?
So innocent they seem
like babes
but they are in collusion
with all the other
newbies in
pollenical effusion.
Flushed in autumn nip
in pinked anticipation
my maple’s bright fillip
extols today’s good station:
springtime’s theft has been restored
though light be meager ration
and I will quiet hours hoard
in flannel’d hibernation.
Oddments 