And these roses are no longer
as trite, when the leaves
begin to foul, and the water
turns brown and scummy.

Someday I’ll learn how to not slide
down that hill, but ask for a lift
from a more respectable guide.

All of this mystery is awakening
the maple leaves in me,
and before they turn over, and the rains come,
I try to remember what brought me
within shouting distance of this
demigod.