Sitting under the maple tree

That beast

That protects

That which it loves

Not who, that's certain

Not me.

It could never love me

I am the one who climbs the boughs

Tearing words

From the leaves

Folding branches

Stripping bark

Until none is left to hold it

To this Earth

It flies

I fly

On the mighty wings I have crafted of these words

Stitched together by careful fingers



Polished to a shine

I fly high

I soar

The verse upholds me, and I—

I know freedom now.

Or I did.

For I have flown too high

For I have flown too far

The ocean churns

Beneath me

The sun beats down above me

I smell the smoke

Before I feel the burn


My wings shrivel up

They fall from my aching arms

And I fall

Back into the boughs of that maple tree

Maybe it does love me

It has no rhyme, no reason

It has saved me.