As the Sugar Maples turn in sadness,
they discuss work-hewn hands
(dry as old leaves),
the black squirrel stooping on the porch,
round and unexpectedly sprightly,
the gentle joys of rice paper.
The day unwraps for their eyes,
coral, hungry, and bed-wet.
In the middle of the night
the wife will open her hands
and turn everything to sweet bread.