Birds of Trees

The many-fingered birds of trees fall, lie
On ground that's bright with fellows of their own,
On liquid glass, and mounds of silent stone,
And drift to rest and dwell on days gone by,
The branches tremble, bare and oh, so dry,
Roots curl in cold, for want of leaves they groan,
Their brothers, warm in green, can stand alone,
While whistling wind sings melody nearby.

As the days wax long, there bursts a bloom,
Portentous blossom, living hope is rife,
A shining spark of light amidst the gloom,
A pompous woodchuck searches for his wife,
The double-winged birds of trees exhume
Their sleepy homes, aglow with golden life.