The light bends through both
sides of the maple in change:
the near green, the far yellow.
All summer I've waited to see it like this.
It's five o'clock in the afternoon,
the sky a high and empty blue;
there is almost no wind.
Soon I'll get up to eat, to sleep.
For a moment, though, the branches fan,
then crack in flames.
My body quietly deserts the room
and at the table there is nothing
but yellow leaves, knuckled bark, and the bending light.