from deep down:
bare boughs flout gravity
to channel hidden sap skyward,
conspiring to bury old winters brown
beneath new summers green, rich and deep.
But the baby leaves on trees innumerable fingertips
wear, a moment, autumns many colors; shy-soft, though,
not cold-crisp like the old leaves, the generation now past.
Most in days late light, sun at farthest west,
do autumns colors live briefly on eastward hills,
gently vivid in the suns cool caress:
haunting of autumn, last and next.
Though leaves will grow green,
they pause at birth,
a brief reminder: