Sugar Maple

The maple blushes a deep red-orange,
shakes her head, weeps—
the Sun, her lover, has flown,
hidden behind autumn's grey clouds.
She leaves her tears strewn
unruly across the straw-colored lawns
Mourns kisses now cold, infrequent...
She withdraws, sinks her sweet essence
into the roots of her winter's despair—
not knowing if, when, where
he'll make his warm appearance.

Darlene Moore Berg