My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the gameI don't include a lot of poetry as a part of the Sunday Short series, but Clive James' most recent one is so heartwrenching that I couldn't not. James is one of Australia's most renowned exports as far as poetry and memoir goes, and to read this poem in reflection of his terminal illness is, well, pretty gutting.
You can read 'Japanese Maple' over at The New Yorker website.
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