Graceful Bow

The golden light of autumn is too rich for earth to bear.
The trees rend all their garments as a symbol of despair.
Yet stately still they stand through winter,
Naked with a penitent shiver,

Knowing that a graceful bow against this
And that harsh wind will leave them standing
Still and tall on the first spring morning
When all of winter's quiet inner workings

Bring forth the first frail buds that burst
With all their longing for the summer sun they’ve heard of.
When back it comes to warm them,
They, like we, spread out their limbs like eager supplicants.