Description
I’LL PAINT MY FACE
The lace-leaf maple whispers
I’ll paint my face, smear
my leaves with lipstick red, whatever
turns you on.
No use.
Winter tantrums in the night, ripping
snapping, twisting — morning chaos
in the once organized lawn. Leaves
stained with red-orange blood
pool around the trunk. Winter laughs
a gust of smoke-gray ripples
