When leaves have fallen, windless, from the trees,
bright circles lie like skirts spread on the lawn.
Then I try to fix the illusive red.
Light plays its tricks. Magenta shifts with ease:
again Venetian red in golden dawn,
slight purple madder when all gold has fled.
Fledgling, I’ve neither palette nor brush; slight
dawn poems, my only canvas, plink again—
uneasy rhyme. I wait for stronger light.
Red’s just red on grass that’s merely green—then
lawn flamingos? Leaves flutter and glow, bright
treason by wind and light I’ll catch, but when?