In the rain, see again the paling palate there,
On poplar tree, stick thin, boughs all feather flared.
Edges which North-Wind rustle-tussle to dainty shimmer.
Lingering, the varnished drops of umber glimmer.
In every breath, a florid flood of clusters pour,
Earth’s face they grace, each freckle placed, upon the floor.
The bleak break, in Heaven’s name. Gold now fare,
Burnished Sun and duck-egg scape, in friendship pair,
Frail rays, fall and fail, on dappled jumble,
Copper crotchets, falling notes, that turn and tumble.
To pepper page, with author’s flow,
An Autumn vignette, turn capriccio.
In beloved loft, poplar tree, the blackbird reign.
Spies the score, with love and more, sings out refrain.
Whistles in, the whistling wind, his melody profound,
Which heave-full, leave-lull, on folded sound.
Sung for me, this song is free, and truely blessed,
The miracle, from which it flow, his little chest.