The November sky is electric
with blue, raw as shaved flesh
readied for surgery.
The maple's a woman
in a red, sequined dress,
freshly widowed.
She has stared death down
and made of her gown
a roosting place for ravens.
They ruffle their feathers
in the sun, garlanding her throat
with black pearls.
Pregnant with wisdom,
she shimmers with the ravens
in the sun, dazzling her grief
with sequins of blood,
brandishing death in the blue-
black luster of her pearls.
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