A Song Softly Sung
Tamarack are the final dancers among autumn’s stars.
Golden needles ignoring all the coniferous rules.
Changing, clinging, willfully waiting, poised for peak performance.
Let the maples have their moment
The oaks, the ash, the sumac too
They will be gone with the gawkers, following the foliage.
Until, until that sweet surrender, gold gilding black bark
As wintery winds, spraying snow, bear other leaves away
Borne, blown, buried in drifts of leafy litter
A golden moment, a shining sundance
A song, softly sung, after the symphony has ended
And the audience has gone home.
Wayne D. King
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