Think upon a maple in November:
Just standing dormant, drab in shades of gray.
It had color, scarcely I remember;
When first its spectrum faded, I can’t say.
Recalling vernal days when blooming bells
rang hope for verdant clouds to fill the wood.
Then later raised to glow when autumn fell,
the acer blazed in glory where it stood.
‘Til the wind and rain stripped off its vigor;
its impetus now lifeless on the ground.
Fallen, leaves it barely stand in rigor,
and yet suppose there might be promise found.
For in dregs of winter it will offer
sweet returns that spring from hidden coffer.