My Maple

The leaves on my maple start life in fragile shades of green. They tentatively unfurl pale lime, sometimes golden. They grow toward summer. Slick rubbery surfaces become verdant labs, energy pads; an alchemical mission marrying sun, dirt, and water from who knows where. Some leaves are breezy cool; blowing their rustle in bluish notes. Some are robust …

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Shot at the Sublime

Don't we all have that burning desire deep inside of something we want to do, a version of ourselves we want to be? This poem is about what that feels like for me: The day starts out navy,turns violet-gray,then, that pale yellow starts to heat things up. The sun throws it and I catch it,because I'm …

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