MAPLE LEAF

Cedar boughs like layers of ferns
shield us beside a real Maple, broad
leaves drinking up seventy-two degree

Canadian sunshine, to insulate the outside
tensions of a busy world–home so far
south that we are too helpless to worry

about water and cows, escaping the dust
and heat, blinding sweat in our eyes–
already forgetting where we’ve come from,

but not why. The plodding mantra
of routine and urgency broken,
we are cut loose to weigh our sanity,

ask and answer free of responsibility
and its intimidations–like a corral gate
opened to more ground and endless sky.