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The Japanese Maples Next to the Bank


are so brilliant in color
I am stilled like a tree myself,
rooted in awe
at their flagrant decay.

I want to join them,
trade my black clothes
for orange and gold, roll
like a child in drifts of beauty.

They seem to dance in the wind,
and when no one is looking,
I shake my hair in the sun
and dance, too.

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