with my neighbors’ long since bare
I cling to turnéd leaves
rust and brown, sere and crisp,
yet not surrendered to the ground
where others’ have lain, been raked,
gone to their reward in compost heaps
or street drain clogs

passers by, then even I,
wonder if spring will come again for me
my neighbors now are green yet
I am clothed in last year’s umber

then far behind the pack, the withered brown
are pushed from their twigs by scarlet
feathers; scarlet turns the palest,
brightest green, then deepens and
I wake again

Ron – 10 May 2008