I preferred studying that leaves do not fall in autumn;
they’re pushed. It captures nature’s chilly practicality,
and the human tendency to fall
for appearances, illusions.
When mild and heat dwindle,
a layer of cells begins to unfold the place leaf stalk
meets twig, like cauterization.
The death-pitted dormant tree appears forward
and not using a flicker in its heartwood.
Every thing is generally grey,
sleeping or decayed.
A couple of brittle curls cling
to the willow’s bones—lifeless
however life will not let go of them,
as if their shreds
nonetheless have one thing to provide.
They appear each deserted
and noble of their outstaying.
Edited by Dava Sobel