Green leaves interrupt, and turn the sunlight
Into the colour of a million emeralds, their fingers
Long and thin descending fluidly in slashes
That attack the wind, then retreat, clashes
Once again, dividing the air into a breeze that lingers
Shyly against the curtained bough, then takes flight.

Branches reach towards the ground, unaccustomed to hold
(Or so it seems,) such autumn sprouting splendour, standing
Bravely, Atlas-like, alone, burden-bearing
Silently, interior (hidden by the leaves,) comparing
And combining the darkness and the light, demanding
Both to leave this sanctuary untouched by cold.

Raindrops descending upon the green, the mist
Revolves around the tree with liquid reflections,
Softly touching the leaves as they dance
In unseen company, leaving droplets scattered by chance
upon them randomly, then retires (with respectful genuflections,)
And resolves itself, coming finally to exist

As dew, thin filming over willow leaves.

					1976