The candle on my desk smells of McIntosh apples – of home in the fall, when the indoor market is full to the gunnels. Its ceiling a crisscross of beams, stays to hoist a mainsail.  Along the aisles – on a downhill slant since before I was born – are the first fruits of colour.  Pumpkins, gourds, apples. Things we carve.

Every McIntosh the direct descendant of a single Canadian deciduous.

From my window here, a courtyard of trees – I see ten without trying. The maples are still green; the pines too, as always. I am a maple tree. I know enough of the bone months.

They grow tall without trying. I grow tall.

Somewhere back home, my points of origin are sitting down to supper. They have faces, names. Their own rings.

How far falls.