Under the maple,
I am embittered.
My resentment pours out in an amber hue,
viscous like resin,
my nimble fingers tacky against the bark that will one day become money-like
to form bills, 
bills, 
bills. 

Upon receiving, 
we may feel fulfilled, 
but its never suffice,
to sink your spite,
because just as soon as the maple loses its leaves
and the sap runs dry
and the funds disappear,
all we have 
again
is the bitterness.