The Cut Maple

Rocking in the tides of wind that swell
above the canopy, the red maple
was felled weeks ago, plunging with a sigh
as the earth rushed up to receive it.

Removed from its roots, capillaries
cauterized by the heat of the chainsaw’s bar, 
that length of bark and bole, though lowered
to its hands and knees, has yet to touch the ground.

And the buds that February dipped
in claret have somehow fledged, new flesh
hanging from the tip of every twig,
as if the maple had been trimmed from this life
without knowing, lingering in the shade
with all the world turned upon its side.

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