A whorl of wind today,
The woods fall back in layers
Yellowed, limed, and browned
On the pumpkin ground,
A world in flight
Below the unblinking eye
Of a terrible sky,
A planet browned
With rotten bales,
Aimless trees
Unglued and stale
Beneath an air too blue,
Too ill at ease,
The distant light
Too brisk, too real,
To be completely right.
Clouds close in,
A whirl of whims
And chlorophyll
At autumn’s end;
The forests spill
With fallen limbs.

Nothing seems
The same above:
The sun beats down
From routine, not love,
From gravity, not flight,
As our disconnected dreams
Of light
Clutch at summer’s brown
And broken seams.

Last year’s scenes
Have disappeared,
Or come about
Without a trace
Of cosmic means.

And yet no doubt
The changing of the leaves
Takes place:
Even galaxies have dreams,

Energy that stares
Back at us from space,
Some future that believes
In its childhood face.