‘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.