The wind is giving, giving,
taking. Red maple, red maple,
sun of a sunless root.
There was a home.
We called it here.
The big lamps burned
and the wind was humming
then: taking, taking,
giving red
maple, red maple.

The branches wave a shape of air:
The wind is there and here’s
a can that clanks along the street, the tin
rush of soldiers’ feet.

We’ll say
the shapes are not bereaved of weight.
We said
the town is not besieged.