By Eugene McCarthy, 1916-2005
Monday, Dec 12, 2005
THE MAPLE TREE
The maple tree that night
without a wind or rain
let go its leaves
because its time had come.
Brown veined, spotted,
like old hands, fluttering in blessing,
they fell upon my head
and shoulders, and then
down to the quiet at my feet.
I stood, and stood
until the tree was bare
and have told no one
but you that I was there.
-Eugene McCarthy, 1916-2005
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