When autumn’s vapors
settled on the valley,
the mottled shades
of leaves thrashed like a sea,
such windblown trash-heaps
tossed in ragged waves;
while some went twisting,
others sped along,
still others, hapless,
leaped all different ways
to meet a dizzy child
half a step ahead,
the rally of them
scattered in my frolic.

Today, fogbound,
November once again,
a gray mosaic of the clouds
roofs over me.
Low weather scrubs
the colors where I walk
caught in the folly
of my boyish capers.
Yet looking back,
blood murmurs round my limbs;
I lumber through
this waste of autumn’s leaving,
which decays so brightly
in my solemn thoughts.

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