you’re maple syrup in my pocket
the aftermath of a sweet meal i knew
i shouldn’t have had
now you’re stuck all over my clothes
saccharine mistakes dribbling down my fingers
you’re maple syrup in my pocket
and everytime i try to wipe you away
you find another way to get in
and now my tears are sticky and sweet
oozing down my chin
dripping onto the linoleum floors
maple syrup on my shoes
i can’t escape you
a sticky footprint beneath me wherever i walk

day by day you consume me
piece by piece i am more
maple syrup than i am myself
who i was before i met you
before i devoured the sweet meal
i knew i should not have touched
however
i am being consumed by you yet you are being consumed by honey
and i suppose honey and you fit quite well
but i am just a wooden spoon you use then turn away from
but because you are maple syrup
and you are so sweet and lovely and golden
and ever so sticky
all your unwanted and used parts
cling to me
pieces of you forever lingering
in my pocket

Red leaves
           fell silently
Under the maple tree
           by the lake
Where we met  
Last autumn
           Late September;
When the maple leaves
             turned crimson
       you made me
blush just like
those scarlet leaves
       That day ...
                                    Autumn came early,
                                  Why don't you,too...?


            Winter's on the way
           Are you, too?


Where are you...?

The moon has come out tonight—
full and brilliant, a hushed white.

I sip persimmon tea underneath
the Japanese maple tree.

Closing my eyes, the summer breeze
ripples through me.

The koi swim to and fro—
like red ticks on cement,
watch how they dance and go.

I think of years gone by,
the times that passed too slow—
those moments I wish I froze.

The tea is cooling between my wrinkled fingers.

Of memories gone past,
far too fast—
even,
my breath deems too long
to linger.

She never failed to mesmerize,
The poetry girl
With the rich maple eyes.

Her jungle of hair flourished on her head,
Contained by a green scrunchie
While the bangs on her forehead were spread.

A bite of the nails, a twist of the hair,
A brush of the bangs,
And her voice echoed like a call to prayer.

She goes to IHOP every weekend, knows the menu by heart,
Lives on pancakes and unlimited coffee,
Although she has been known to dabble with egg tarts.

She pulled her knees up to her chest,
Two Crocs, one green, one white,
Her gaze as stalwart as a tree in a forest.

When she spoke, her thoughts came out like trails of smoke,
Littering the room with her personality,
Those scraps of beauty as powerful as a thunderstroke.

She never failed to mesmerize,
The poetry girl
With the rich maple eyes.