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DYING DAY
A wistful still,
no wind,
no song of bird,
nothing stirs.
The world seems half asleep,
no weeping willows here,
just birches, firs and hornbeams
beaming at the spring to come,
each of them in their row,
where thrushes gather in the fall
to gorge on berries one and all.
It's evening, the time of rest,
when silently the night,
gathers in the light,
spreads an indigo instead.
