Called, not
compelled,
culled and propelled
(though softly)
the yellow leaves leave
their limbs,
surrender themselves,
drowsy buttery butterflies,
without rancor or regret or
desire—
how can they be
so beautiful—
they come down
with a sound like raindrops—
drip. plop.
riding on a sigh
this one still
windless morning.
The trees are bare.
The street is yellow.

Virginia Weir