THE frost has settled down upon the
trees
And ruthlessly
strangled off the fantasies
Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like
old
Romantic stories
now no more to be told.
The trees down the boulevard stand
naked in
thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced,
caught
In the grim
undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter’s long, cross-questioning
brunt.
Has some hand balanced more leaves
in the depths
of the twigs?
Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of
the
birch? —
It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on
the
sprigs,
Sitting
huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with
their
perch.
The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks
itself.
Like vivid
thought the air spins bright, and all
Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the
after-thought
Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin
brought.