WILLOWS

The leaves have finally fallen from maples, oaks
And ash. The fated elms are stripped. The gale
Has blown them over the lawns and lanes, and they quail
Untidy in corners and hedges, matted and soaked.

These are the days of the willows’ latter glory
As the western sun ignites the clinging crown
To a special gold. A tithe of leaves have found
A neat and evenly spaced repository,

Claiming the nearest driveway, artfully
Disposing their slender shapes like minnows caught
In ice, a Mycenaean mosaic inwrought
With silvered gems afloat: In an ebon sea.

But beauty beckons to oblivion .
Another rain descends and they are gone .

(138, December 3, 1993)

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