In yellow leaves,
you lie laughing,
pink from the morning chill.
Leaves swirl about you,
obsessed golden moths
fluttering about your clothes;
loving the light of you.

I know my winter is coming;
full of cold, gray ashes,
sleeping earth.
But you are so beautiful,
so bright.
You make this last harvest,
sweetly divine.

Heaven, I believe--
will be a memory of you,
rolling with childish glee
among the dying autumn leaves.