I never reached the top of the mountain.
But it was green, green inside.
Along the pathway I walked,
a reddened dash, a tree,
seven leaves on a broken branch, fallen
leaves and leaves like clay so red
they should be living. To kick them up'd be
a little useless: the life in them
is their fantastic death. They are
all fingers, pointing outward
towards time. I even heard
the crack announcing autumn's growth.
They fell like an arm, an empty arm,
embarrassed, as it dropped.