For Those Eyes Steeped in Verse

On the bark of a white birch
A wren flits its pale-grey shade,
Same shade as thrown by the leaves,
Some of which fall with each breeze.

This, for those eyes steeped in verse,
Must mean a poem of the fall,
That time of year when boughs shake
Poems in heaps like leaves to mulch.

The fall. Good term. Works so well,
Like a vane on an old barn
That spins so long as no one
Thinks to snap it off to sell.

Could point to the time of year.
Could point to a sin, long since,
Or to a mere stubbed-toe sprawl.
I could well die from a fall.

I’ve come close. I don’t fall well.
Winds shift and the wren lifts off.
A few more gold leaves fall off.
You want the ache. You hate it.