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.