the numb white of ice
though it is,
the grizzled old
December wind
can't quite
erase these last
riots of leaf color—
such fortunes
of mock-gold
and ember-red treasures
as my forebearers
greedily burned
down the world for
now cached (as if
under glass)
on the stiff
ice-shagged branches,
soon
to disintegrate, yet
transcending all transaction—
an unprofitable sight
with the year
almost done
which is
current to all
and currency
to no one.
