See the pair of us
                              Raining and morning

the first soft ashes
                              along the high road

running the far ridge
                              of pines ripped wild to

timbers by storming
                              to shreds see the white

shreds like coals like a
                              sudden sorrow see

the partial moon see
                              the cut sky see us

serene with singing
                              are we merry are

we rueful neither
                              is there sufficient

wording for what falls
                              all the muffled horns

pleading but too late
                              along the last route

of what remains can
                              you see us what can

you see there—lost leaves
                              waiting to come back

as leaves . . .