Using the Cold for Colour
The road had frozen
to a white seam.
I was already moving.
Then the maple,
nearly bare,
opened its last red
against the cold.
Not blossom.
Not wound.
Each leaf,
thin as a blade,
used the cold
for colour,
pinning to its stem
the heat
the year had kept
under green.
I stood
with my foot lifted.
Behind each leaf,
the bare branch
was already there,
giving the red
its edge.
—
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