plod of October
rain is defeating
the tenuous will of the
weakest leaves—
three at a time
falling, then six,
then twelve.
Perhaps we too, hopeless
but willful as these
rooted trees,
will be driven yet completely
to divest,
will be martyred
to the very cause
of our changing—little by little,
squall by squall—
into poorer but sleeker,
bankrupt, yet less
overburdened specters
of ourselves.
