A gently descending blanket of silver and mist subdues all the world

except the fierce little maple tree outside my English class

Its orange burns brighter than the sunset that warmed us the other night

after an impulsive and brisk November ocean swim

Served a la carte on a platter of bubble gum ridden concrete,

it is a smooth salmon fillet, so hearty to consume

that my eyes are full and stuffed with richness

Drops of red on the tips of the leaves

more cutting than the blood that spilled from my knees

in first grade when I raced down the hill

Those leaves skip across my vision

the way spots do when you stand up too fast

Students sit in square classrooms

with walls painted the somber beige-grey they sell

for ten dollars a can at the local dump

In a cage of classes with no one watching

the little orange tree explodes in a premature independence,

an early firework show, just for me