A Song Softly Sung
Tamarack are the final dancers among autumn’s stars.Golden needles ignoring all the coniferous rules.Changing, clinging, willfully waiting, poised for peak performance.
Let the maples have their momentThe oaks, the ash, the sumac tooThey will be gone with the gawkers, following the foliage.
Until, until that sweet surrender, gold gilding black barkAs wintery winds, spraying snow, bear other leaves awayBorne, blown, buried in drifts of leafy litter
A golden moment, a shining sundance A song, softly sung, after the symphony has endedAnd the audience has gone home.
Wayne D. King
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