Autumn

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You wonder, how you can describe
Autumn to a child. I guess you can always
Show a rubber tree, deciduous in December,
And brightening up in luminous leaflets,
The following April. That is how we see
The leaves fall here in Sri Lanka.

Still nothing turns gold here.
Everything is just as bare as naked rubber plants,
Which is unlike the maple, where the sap
Is extracted till early autumn, going
Into a sugar-maple economy, to sustain
The Quebecois lifestyle.

And in this gulf between Canada
And Sri Lanka, you find little parachutes
Common to both falls. The way abscission makes
A layer of dead cells, unhinging leaf by leaf
To the gentle wind, making every tree
As naked as any bride on her honeymoon.

Autumn, is when you sleep earlier, and
Get up later, to synchronize to the longer nights
That make you just a tad lazy. Seeing
The skeletal maples bare, is like an epiphany,
When we see ourselves as deciduous creatures
In cycles of shoot and fall.

And love is, what is kept on the cooktop.
The porridge in the morning and the soup at night
And we burn to a little flame
That keeps the inside, as bright as the outside.
And tongues, they forge language and love
To preserve human ties.

There are maples everywhere in Quebec.
As does rubber plants in Sri Lanka.
Custodians who live to be clothed
To garnish a little bucket, that collects
The sap rushing out. Sap is just maple syrup
Or latex, in two ends of the world,
Unified by hollow vasculature.

Autumn is just shutting
Down the factory of a sugar maple, and spring is
Rekindling the pipelines, and at the end
Of that beauty sleep, you find the emergence,
Of a true green frock, which is a miracle worker,
From hemlines to necklines,
Sun power turning to liquid aurum,
Dripping from collecting buckets to the breakfast table,
Through Midas’s splattering vein.

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