The fall of the leaves never is the end,

whatever sorrow mingles with the wind

like tears,

however the touch of winter’s icy fingers

shock and still with the chill of death that lingers

on like years.

For vows inscribed on circuits of the earth

cannot be broken on their way through dearth

and drear.

But being small, our memories are weak,

and winter breathes out gloom like darkness speaks

of fear.

We must search the sun for promise as we pass

and pick the signs—the violets in the grass—

and hear

the frogs croak out with joy and sparrows sing.

And then our hoping turns to knowing Spring

is near.