‘Midst branches bare and brown,

With twigs a-tangle in the mist

They float – frail bits of parchment

Traced with wettened water twists

That track to where drips drop themselves

From faded tips to seek the ground

Where all the other autumn leaves

Adorn the dirt, now layer-gowned.

And still the air-borne pale ones cling;

The branch-bound deck their trees with rows

Of whitened gold that sun’s return

Will catch inside and set a-glow.