I refuse to believe the leaves are falling
already, the green is now gold, wrapped
with sunlight faded, colder than before,
but still ere the hard winter ahead,
snow-shadow trees, and frozen gossamer.

Winds race through sparse canopy,
a shaken bough, a broken vow, an undertow
beneath a low cloud where songbirds sang.

The forest grows more quiet
with each passing day turn month, to years.

A stone skips the face of the pond
to rest finally in the aftermath
of an endlessly dying circle.

The green grows gold,
rapt with sunlight faded.

Chagall 2018

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