CUT-OUTS

Driven by the rain

From sickly waving 

On a tree to brutal

Hospice on the lane,

 

Mottled leaves outlive

Their deathly frolic

On the stalk to end

Embedded in the walk

 

Of fame, where, downed,

They extend their reign,

As fire spurs

A seed to copy underground

 

What it lost to flame.

These faded pigments

Pass their glory 

To cement,

 

Whose scuffling feet remove

The useless stamp,

Bled of nutrients and hue,

Leaving in the damp

 

The template of its

Wasted shell, the heir

To all its rampant joy,

Its brilliant dance

 

Of air: if not its

Colored soul, then just

An appliqué, where

The simple outline

 

Of its life might

Be seen in passing as

A way between

The darkness and the light.