My lover is a sugar maple tree,
her back erect and regal, erudite,
her breast replete with summer’s greenery,
her inner hardwood strong and straight and white.
Between the rugged cracks within her bark
there leaks the luscious liquid of her love
more sweet than any flower in the park;
a tiny taste electrifies the blood.
Now summer’s soft caress is giving in
to autumn’s icy hand which draws the lines
still deeper in her weather-beaten skin;
yet in her fire-tipped leaves, my sun still shines.
For time, as it enwraps her in its hold,
distills her purest nectar into gold.
© 2021 Leo Durrant