The Wood Road

 If I were to walk this way
Hand in hand with Grief,
I should mark that maple-spray
Coming into leaf.

I should note how the old burrs
Rot upon the ground.

Yes, though Grief should know me hers
While the world goes round,
It could not if truth be said
This was lost on me:
A rock-maple showing red,
Burrs beneath a tree.

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