Catch-Last
This is a good going. Notice how the maple
moves in the sun, its wind-run gold
like some smiling saint outside the window
ablaze for glory. How the top leaves foldthat white-heat flame, that instant poise
before the leap; exhilaration tensed,
turned inward; how cold wind plays
catch-last with leaves. Nothing here lamentsthe loss: as lithe limbs gather strength
long lines lean into cold, the dark
center knows what comes against its length.
Consigning to the flames its summer's work,it loses the transient in these last lean days—
as pitiless as faith, as brilliant in its blaze.
