Classic Poem

Whatever the maples meant —
autumnal semaphore,
yearly more violent,
in red-gold — they forebore
any plain testament.

Now they are gone, and new
houses arise instead.
These do not change their hue
nor cast acres of dead
stars to go shuffling through —

those asterisks about
some coming codicil
henceforward left in doubt:
Progress probates the will —
and Autumn is left out.











By permission of the author.