A tapped maple

is singing in the Walpole woods

crown of snails and empurpled shadow

crouching around her pine

needle cradled walk

where I wait in my sheets of gauze

to be stitched and remembered.

Rowing with long arms

in a thin canoe alone

she belts up against

a riverside tree

and smokes with lunch.

Twilight diverges from

the turned sky

and the stony water's bottom

whose veiled architecture

she is searching

with a diamond studded rake.

Roots where I am clutched

watching from the eaten shore

where our song went with an engine once

parked deep behind a yellow painted door.