The bud becomes the green of it
The green, a sheen of trees
But always at the end of it
…Autumn leaves
The heart becomes the hub of hope
Hope hungers, yet believes
It sees beyond the stricken slope
Where Autumn leaves
Oh, how we sing for joy of it
The color-world it weaves
Before the winnowing of it
In Autumn leaves
Futile to cling to strings that fray
Mouth smiles though spirit grieves
And thrills; the Painter spills His tray
Of Autumn leaves
Morning is a girl, slight of years
Time’s tide rushes, recedes
Where dusk is like a widow’s tears
Where Autumn bleeds
While we, like children press our faces
To frames filled with sheaves
And watch the wind-wand as it chases
Rain through leaves
As we hug hurt, stirred by the dirt
Where bud never retrieves
The tatters of a fallen shirt
Of Autumn leaves
© Janet Martin
