Each leaf: a bright jewel, a hot coal
If orchards, they are ripe
If celebrations, brief
Two weathered ones are mottled
brown and green
They are broad wings gliding down
the hanging scroll
Hawks on a thermal
Soon we will sit by the window and watch
blue shadows
lengthen along the snowy fields
When he knew he was dying, he gestured
into the sky, his voice
a hoarse brushwork, wistful
I have always worked hard—why?