I can, sir, though you look surprised

that falling leaves have caught my eye.

Why should you stand there so amazed

the dying year could make me cry?

True, I am a child with a child's hands

and a child's eyes. But these have felt

the dying seed: the broken ends

of pods that shrink and leaves that wilt.

Inside this very grove, I found

a blackbird stiff and torn. Her breast

was ice. Above the darkened ground,

her eggs were frozen in the nest.

The gardener sets his traps beneath

these golden boughs. I've seen a fox

with a snapped leg, his finished breath

frosting a grave of rocks and sticks.

I think of these when summer dies

and leaves cry out in silent flame.

It may be true that when I'm wise

I'll call them by a different name.

But today, my ghost is not guessing.

The loss I feel is sharp and deep.

I can't know what the years will bring,

but sir, I do know why I weep.