Cold December rain—
 
if the maple trees could speak,
 
maybe they’d complain.

 
 

How disconcerting
 
to see the sugar maple
 
strip itself of leaves!

 
 
 

In my autumn dream
 
I am the last maple leaf
 
clinging to its tree.

 
 
 

On a whitewashed wall
 
a leaf from the maple tree
 
leaks out its redness.

 
 
 

Crimson maple leaves
 
in the old stone Buddha’s lap
 
quickly fade to brown.

 
 
 

Crimson maple leaves,
 
loosened by an autumn breeze,
 
flutter to the ground.

 
 
 

A sagging front porch—
 
two old people in rockers
 
watch maple leaves fall.

 
 
 

Stripped of its brilliance,
 
the once-crimson maple leaf
 
has turned brittle-brown.

 
 
 

What song’s left to sing
 
now that all the maple trees
 
have cast off their leaves?

 
 
 

unleashed maple leaves
 
staining the crisp air crimson
 
as they fall to earth