While gazing into autumn’s gold the awe
is easily stirred but something in me trembles.
Perhaps it’s the sure anticipation of leaves
about to fall. So I love those brown stragglers
that cling all the way into spring even when
the lovely blooms might seem to want a frame
Some say it is death that quickens the living.
I might agree, if the numbing is allowed and
loved, those browned leaves that hang on