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.