nothing unscathed. Desires,
once tender stalks, grow brittle;
the first and clear-eyed dew
that clung thereto
expires.

The summer leaves—the trees’
dense growth—that, dying little
by little, turn red, brown,
go down and down
and these

still leaves long winds will shake
and put me on my mettle—
here, rusted as dead blood,
there, bright, my good—
both make

the most of light. And then,
as, torn, the leaves resettle,
and the heart, ravaged, grieves,
the summer leaves
again.