This maple's modest bloom, the green
That hazes naked limbs like dancers' gauze
Across our Wampanoag waters; green
Of calyx and corolla crowding out
The tiny gold of pistil-tips to trick
Or almost trick us into reading all
As common leafage. Yesterday I walked
Around the Kentish graveyard, Scituate,
Wherein the massy winds my bike had worked
Against to get me there had shaken down
A thousand maple blossoms, strewing them
Like wedding-toss among the figured stones.
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Norway maple
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