Maple

On the twenty ninth she placed,
A maple, in the middle of the talking page,
It was full of your words, the dairy,
The one, that still treasures.

There are many such riches, many such gems,
That are snatched by the magpies, many such prizes,
And for me, the treasure had been simple,
It was that lone, tawny maple.

Maple, autumnal,
With dew, so moist, it had floated to her,
And with winds, as it grappled,
She had caught the maple.

It was her day of jubilant celebration,
And she had been so caught up in the revelry,
Her life had been festooned, decorated,
But the autumnal maple, had reminded.

It had contrasted, it had been crumbling,
In a world, that was blooming,
Like ugly duckling, which became swan,
The beauty in webbed vein, only I saw.

A maple it was, moist with morning dew,
Dying now, being trampled on,
But in crumbling maple, I saw,
Beauty, of my favorite brown.

The color is to me, very dear,
Because it’s a very special shade,
The maple flapped his wings in front of my eyes,
And I bought it home to my dairy….

Shadow, I named my maple.
And I placed him there, in my book, on the 29th,
So that place, he may always occupy,
He still stays there; I haven’t let him die…

8:46 pm, 29th January, 2010.