Return

You did not clock the falling of the leaves
The silent turning of the grass
Nor see brief bright November
Rising out of the hills.
You came
When the sun was set and the bough bent
To find the curtness of winter
The completed act.

You may well say, but with little right
“I never trusted autumn”
Who never sought the root
Of sharp October sorrel
And flame red trees
Or knew the wise and final peace
Red-browning autumn brought
To one whom you loved, and left
To face the dark alone.